


Our Arcadia

by Wyrmseeker



Category: Fire Emblem Series, Fire Emblem: Rekka no Ken | Fire Emblem: Blazing Sword
Genre: F/M, Gen, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-30
Updated: 2020-12-29
Packaged: 2021-03-09 21:01:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 21
Words: 106,107
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27802705
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wyrmseeker/pseuds/Wyrmseeker
Summary: Mark and Matthew run across an unusual woman—a woman with black hair and golden eyes. When they try to follow her, Mark is taken hostage by a race they'd thought wiped out. Caught between friend and foe, he can only hope his captivity leads to an uneasy peace between humans and morphs—for the alternative is seeing Lycia drawn again into a secret war.
Relationships: Denning (Fire Emblem)/Original Character(s), Guy/Lyndis (Fire Emblem), Heath/Florina (Fire Emblem), Hector/Priscilla (Fire Emblem), Lucius/Serra (Fire Emblem), Matthew (Fire Emblem)/Original Character(s), Raven/Farina (Fire Emblem), Tactician (Fire Emblem)/Original Character(s)
Comments: 6
Kudos: 11





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A couple of notes before we start.
> 
> This story is meant to take place five years after Blazing Blade, and fifteen before Binding Blade. I've done my best to ensure that it fits into the games' continuity, but it's entirely possible I've missed some errors. If you spot some of these, I apologize, and I hope they don't detract from your enjoyment of the story.
> 
> This story owes a debt of inspiration to Special, by LaCerise, and Perfect Being, by aviatrix8. If you enjoy what you read here, I recommend checking those out.
> 
> Thanks to The Blazing Blade (the user, not the game) and my wife for their feedback.
> 
> And thanks to you for reading.

“We’re not in any danger of getting out of here on time, are we?” Matthew asked.

Mark shook his head as he perused the texts on display at the market. “Don’t you have errands of your own to run? You don’t have to stand here and watch me browsing.”

“Hector told me to keep you safe,” Matthew said, shrugging.

“Yes,” Mark muttered. “You never know; one of these books might be an assassin in disguise.”

“He _also_ told me to have you back at the castle in time for the troop deployment briefing this afternoon,” the spy continued, ignoring the comment.

“So we can discuss whether to move five horses from Feran to Thena or five footmen from Thena to Feran? Yes, I can see why I’m needed for that.”

“You going to buy something, or just fondle my merchandise and chat all day?” the vendor grumbled.

Mark bit back his retort. The Ostian market was one of the grandest in the Lycian League, with vendors and their booths spreading out to his left and right as far as the eye could see. Yet surprisingly few of those vendors carried books—a fact some found amusing in light of Lord Hector’s own feelings on reading. It would not do to sour his relationship with this one, her booth full of volumes of every shape and color—though Mark had no idea how many of them would actually be of any interest.

Mark finally picked up one of the books and paid the vendor, who counted the money while grumbling something untoward under her breath. Mark showed the cover to Matthew as they walked away. “ _A History of Wyvern Riding_ ,” he said. “Should be interesting.”

“Sounds riveting,” Matthew replied, rolling his eyes. He brushed a strand of light brown hair away from them; he’d taken to parting it, and remained clean-shaven, putting forth a front of respectability to distract from his cunning. He stretched his lean muscles as he eyed Mark. “Since when did you read so much, anyway?”

“What do you mean, ‘since when?’ I’ve been reading all my life. How do you think I got to be a tactician in the employ of Ostia, anyway?”

“Luck, mostly.”

Mark frowned at him.

“Luck, and happening to be nearby when Eliwood got attacked by bandits.”

“That’s… not _quite_ how it happened,” Mark murmured.

“You did manage to get us through the entire conflict with Nergal,” Matthew acknowledged.

“ _Thank_ you.”

“With Eliwood and Hector’s help, of course.”

Mark opened his mouth to protest, but after a moment, nodded in acquiescence instead. “That’s fair.”

Matthew smiled, and Mark found himself smiling back. While Mark didn’t work for Hector, he visited often, occasionally lending tactical advice. Since Matthew had risen to master of Ostia’s spy network, he’d been responsible for assigning bodyguards to special guests such as the wayward tactician. At first, there had been a few spies, stoic types who mostly pretended Mark wasn’t there, doing nothing to hide their disdain for a job they considered beneath them. Then, during one visit, Matthew himself had been the one at Mark’s side. Mark didn’t know why he’d done it, or how he managed to balance his spymaster duties with his role as bodyguard, but Matthew had been watching over him for years now. And, despite the former thief’s more unscrupulous tendencies, they had managed to become friends in that time, as well.

“Besides, that’s not the point,” Matthew said, returning Mark’s thoughts to the present. “You used to read strategy texts and the occasional story, yeah, but recently it seems you’ve always got your nose in a book. And weird stuff, too; biology, history, myths and legends…”

Mark peered at his companion. “You been spying on me?”

“Not intentionally,” Matthew replied, shrugging. “But I am a spy, after all. I notice things like this.”

“I see,” Mark muttered, pursing his lips. “Well, I guess… I guess I just want to know more about dragons.”

Matthew blinked. “Dragons?”

“Yeah.” He rubbed his cheek, looking away from Matthew, hoping this didn’t sound as silly as he knew it would. “I mean, we were all taught that they attacked humans a millennium ago, and that’s what caused humans to fight back in the Scouring. But after meeting Nils and Ninian, and after seeing what Durandal did in Eliwood’s hands, and after discovering Arcadia… I can’t help but feel that there’s more to it than that.” He lifted the book. “Our history is surprisingly vague about the exact cause of the Scouring, so I’ve been reading up on dragons as much as I can to try and discover the truth.”

Matthew glanced down. “And… you think _A History of Wyvern Riding_ will help with that?”

“Well, wyverns are distant relatives of dragons, so… maybe?”

Matthew shook his head. “You’re reaching there, friend. …But I’m glad you at least told me why your reading habits have changed so much. When we get back to Ostia, I’ll check the archives and see if I can find anything you’d be interested in.”

Mark smiled. “Thanks, Matthew. I appreciate—”

The next thing Mark knew, he was on the ground, his book lying a few feet away. Someone else was on top of him, scrambling to get off; he heard a hurried apology muttered by a young voice as a pair of light feet scurried away. He tried to get up, only to be shoved to the side by someone else running by. Looking up, he saw a young woman chasing after the kid who’d knocked him down; the fact that he was carrying a bag of money and she was carrying a half-sheathed sword was enough to tell him what was happening. As he rose, the young woman cast an apologetic glance back at him, just for a moment.

It was enough, though. Enough for him to gaze into her eyes, causing his own to widen.

“You all right?” Matthew said, helping him up. The woman had turned away, her black hair—done up in a braid—snapping back to the right as she renewed her pursuit.

“We have to stop them,” Mark said.

Matthew looked after the two runners. “From the look of things, I’d say she has things well in hand. Poor kid probably didn’t count on picking the pocket of someone as fast as her.”

“Matthew!” Mark’s voice was suddenly raised, and he forcefully grabbed the thief’s shoulder. “We have to stop them!”

Matthew flinched at his tone. The tactician rarely raised his voice unless they were in direct combat—something which they hadn’t seen together in five years. “All right,” he said. “How?”

“This way,” Mark said, turning toward the stalls. A map of the market was already taking shape in his mind. “I have a plan.”

“Don’t you always _,”_ Matthew muttered as he stepped forward. Mark pretended not to hear.

Matthew went first, because of course he did. Mark may have been a tactical genius, but the man was about as graceful as a wagon train. Matthew, on the other hand, was a well-trained stallion. Or maybe a pony; smaller and more agile. The point being, he was able to cut between the stalls, clearing a path for the tactician, who followed him with a series of crashes and shouted apologies.

“This section of the market curves around like a horseshoe,” Mark had explained. “If the kid’s trying to outrun her, he’ll have to loop around following the market stalls. We can cut them off if we go straight through.”

It was a sound plan, and after bumping a few stands and collecting annoyed looks from several vendors, they emerged on the other side of the market. Sure enough, the boy rounded the corner seconds later, sprinting through the corridor of stalls toward the pair, followed closely by the young woman.

“All right,” Matthew said, “What do you suggest we—”

Mark was already walking toward the oncoming runners. They paid him no more attention than they did any of the other market-goers—until Mark suddenly stuck out his leg, and the boy tripped hard over him, tumbling to the ground and landing at Matthew’s feet. Before he could get up, the elder thief had taken the bag of money, holding it up above the child’s head. “This doesn’t belong to you, does it?”

The boy reached for the bag, then, looking over his shoulder at the oncoming swordswoman, thought better of it and dashed off. Matthew made to grab him, but stopped when Mark grabbed his shoulder. “Let him go,” the tactician said, the urgency gone from his voice.

Matthew arched an eyebrow at his companion. “I thought you wanted to stop him?” he asked, placing the bag in Mark’s outstretched hand.

“Not just him,” Mark said, lowering his voice as he motioned over the thief’s shoulder.

Matthew turned to see the woman approaching them, her steps slowing from a sprint to a cautious jog, one hand still fingering the blade at her side. Her jet-black braid hung tentatively from her head, and her golden eyes fixed on the two, darting from one to the other as she assessed the risk they posed.

Mark made the first move, tossing the bag over to her. She caught it deftly in one hand and returned it to her pocket without ever taking her eyes from the two men. After a brief pause, she opened her mouth to speak. “Thank you,” she said slowly, as if she had to force the words out. “I could have handled it myself.”

“Well, now you don’t have to,” Mark said, his voice surprisingly warm. Matthew gave the tactician an odd look; had he really just dragged them across the market the hard way just to impress a woman? Sure, her hair was nice, although the eyes were kind of strange, and…

Matthew blinked. Her hair. Her eyes.

_It can’t be…_

The woman frowned at Mark’s comment. “If you expect some kind of reward…”

“No need,” Mark said, holding up a hand. “We just saw him running, and figured we’d lend a hand.”

Matthew shook off his shock and elbowed his companion. “What my friend means to say is, we’ll consider us even if you’ll let him buy you a drink,” he called.

Mark looked at Matthew in shock, face flushing. The woman was surprised as well, although some of the suspicion left her face. “That’s… very generous of you,” she said hesitantly. “But I’m afraid I won’t be around long enough. I’m getting supplies for my village, and must return immediately.”

“Yes, well,” Mark said, still clearly flustered. “Maybe next time.”

“Maybe.” A flicker in her eyes made it hard to tell whether she was dismissing the offer or considering it for the future. In any event, she must have judged their business concluded, for the woman turned and left without another word.

As soon as the woman was out of earshot, Mark spun on the spy. “‘Let him buy you a drink?!’” he hissed.

“Here’s a lesson for you,” Matthew whispered back. “Nobody trusts someone as trustworthy as you.” He ignored Mark’s confused expression as he went on. “If you tell her you helped her out of the kindness of your heart, she’ll think you have an ulterior motive. If you tell her you did it to impress her, she’ll think she _knows_ your ulterior motive—and won’t suspect anything further.”

Mark opened his mouth to argue, but only sighed after a moment. “That… makes sense.”

“Besides, it couldn’t hurt to ask,” the thief added with a mischievous grin. “You aren’t exactly beating the women away with a stick these days.”

Matthew’s jibe was rewarded with a flush on his friend’s face. Mark wasn’t what you’d call _un_ attractive, though spending so much time together certainly made the tactician self-conscious. Next to Matthew, Mark’s height and broad shoulders seemed less robust and more clumsy. Mark wasn’t one to pay much attention to his appearance or his health, either. Most days, it didn’t bother him, unless Matthew went out of his way to bring up women.

He couldn’t help it. Sure, Mark made for an easy, well, mark. But Matthew also just wanted to see his friend happy.

Not that this was the time or place to find happiness. Mark’s blush faded into a glare. “We have more important things to worry about,” he muttered, raising his voice a little now that the woman had gotten some distance. “You see what I see?”

“Jet-black hair. Blood-red lips. Golden eyes. Skin so pale it looks like it’s never seen the sun.” Matthew nodded. “It doesn’t seem possible, but there you have it. That woman is a morph.”

It went without saying that they had to follow her. How to do so, however, was a point of some contention. Matthew was trained in the arts of stealth and subterfuge; Mark was known for occasionally walking into walls if he got too distracted. “You should go back to the castle and get help,” Matthew had insisted. “Tell Hector what’s going on. I’ll follow her and scope out the situation.”

“I’m not letting you go alone,” Mark muttered as they walked, keeping enough of a distance that it wasn’t obvious they were following the woman as they wound through the market crowds. “We don’t know what you could be walking into. And besides, I’m as curious to see what she’s up to as you.”

Matthew’s eyes narrowed. “Curiosity’s a poor reason to get yourself killed, friend,” he muttered back. “I hate to say this, but you’re more a liability than an asset when trying to tail someone.”

“Matthew.” Mark reached into his throat for his command voice. “I’m coming with you. I know I’m not much in a fight, but if something happens, you’ll want _some_ one watching your back.”

The spy glared at him for a moment, then hissed a curse. “I know I’m going to regret this,” he muttered. “Come on; she’s headed south.”

The woman was heading back to where she’d been when the boy snatched her coin purse. There was a cart there, hitched to a horse, which was already laden with many dried goods and sundries. She inspected it, and her tense posture relaxed a little once she’d finished inventorying everything. The materials on the cart fit with her story of getting supplies for her village: there were a large number of dry goods and sundries, as well as feed, some clothing, and a few essentials such as milk and flour. The woman led the horse onward, forcing Mark and Matthew to retreat temporarily as she approached their position. The two men split up, wandering off into the crowd, hoping to avoid her attention; they reunited once she’d passed, and began following her again.

“Surprising her village would only send one person to get so many supplies,” Mark muttered.

“Surprising any village would take in a morph,” Matthew replied. “Most people, even ones who didn’t know about Nergal, found them… unsettling, at best.”

“Unsettling, perhaps, but that alone isn’t a reason to toss someone out on their ears.” Mark’s lips were pursed. “If she was a refugee from the war with Nergal, someone may have taken her in, even if they didn’t realize the scope of the conflict.”

“You think too highly of people, friend.” It was a common statement from Matthew toward the idealistic tactician. “But you’re right about one thing. Why send her? Why send _only_ her?”

The question went unanswered as the crowds thinned at the edge of the marketplace. Matthew and Mark found themselves having to trail far behind their target to avoid drawing attention to themselves. When they reached the road out of town, Matthew insisted on staying so far from the cart they could barely see it—which meant she could barely see them, as Mark had to grudgingly admit. Still, he quickly strode up each hill to make sure he caught a glimpse of her before she disappeared over the next rise, loathe to lose her before they figured out where she was going.

“You know her village could be days away, right?” Matthew said quietly as they crested another ridge. “We’re not exactly outfitted for a long journey.”

“Neither is she.” Mark motioned to the cart in the distance. “No tent, no bedroll. This is a day trip, which means she came into town this morning and expects to be back by tonight.”

“Or just travel straight through the night.”

“Or that,” the tactician admitted. “But I’m willing to bet it’s not much further.”

Matthew arched an eyebrow. “You haven’t heard what happened to the last man who bet me something, then?”

Mark felt a shiver go down his spine. “I said I was willing to bet, not that I was willing to bet _you_.”

“Fair enough.”

The road led west, cutting through a wide valley between the Etrurian mountains, making remaining hidden from the woman much more difficult. Then she went off the road altogether, and while the tall grass provided some degree of cover, the rough terrain slowed them down. Mark grew more worried by the minute that they’d lose her, but before long, her destination became clear. Almost lost in the growing shadows of the mountains was the looming hulk of a fort wall. The woman was heading straight toward it, and, sure enough, Matthew and Mark crested one final rise to find she’d stopped her wagon by the gate.

The two men dropped to the ground as the woman glanced around, checking her surroundings. “Where are we?” Mark muttered under his breath.

Matthew stared at him. “You don’t know? Who’s the tactician here, again?”

“All these forts kind of blur together after a while,” Mark admitted.

Matthew turned back with a sigh. “Well, if I recall correctly, then…” he shook his head. “I don’t know either.”

Mark allowed himself a smirk.

“There _are_ a lot of forts,” Matthew said, “and some of them have been abandoned for quite a while.”

The woman moved over to the ancient wooden gate and knocked on it. Though it seemed for a moment that it might fall off its hinges from the force of her hand alone, it took a moment before it started creaking open—pulled from the inside.

Mark fought not to raise his head. “This one certainly isn’t abandoned.”

“Looks that way from the outside, though,” Matthew muttered. “And considering your lady friend’s skittishness, I’d say whoever’s in there doesn’t want anyone knowing they’re here.”

“But who—”

The gates opened fully, and three men and another woman emerged to help her with the wagon. All four of the newcomers had the same features as the woman—jet black hair, pale skin, blood-red lips, and golden eyes that pierced Mark’s gaze even from this distance.

“More morphs,” he said. Even if he’d wanted to speak above a whisper, he suddenly didn’t have the breath for it.

“No.” Mark had never seen Matthew’s eyes so wide. “No. No way. There can’t be this many of them.”

“This many—” Mark straightened up a little, looking at the fortress walls. “How many do you think are in there?”

Matthew pointed to the wagon. “Rationed properly, those supplies could provide for an entire village.”

Mark felt his breath caught. “A village of morphs.”

“Try an _army_ of morphs. These things were made to advance Nergal’s cause; them being here can’t mean anything good. We have to—” He cut himself off, looking around. “Oh, drat.”

“What?” Mark looked over at him. “What is it?”

“Oh,” Matthew sighed, returning his voice to a normal volume, “just that while we’ve been laying here gawking, we’ve gotten ourselves surrounded.”

It took Mark a moment to realize what he meant. It also seemed to take the morphs a moment to realize they’d been spotted, because by the time five of the pale creatures sprung up around them, armed with blades and bows, Matthew was already on his feet, a dagger in each hand. A blur of motion, and one of the morphs fell with a garbled cry, a dagger in its shoulder. Another lifted his blade to slash as the mass of Matthew’s dark cloak rushed at him, slicing through the fabric—and only the fabric, for the thief was not wearing the cloak, having thrown it as a distraction as he rushed another member of the group, blade flashing red in the light of the setting sun.

Two morphs were on the ground by the time Mark had risen from it. One of those still standing was struggling with Matthew’s cloak, another engaging Matthew himself. The last of them was—

“Don’t move.”

 _Right behind me,_ Mark realized with a grimace. He slowly lifted his arms, and turned to face his opponent. “Look,” he said softly, “I’m unarmed.” He looked down at the morph’s blade, examining the length and build of the sword pointed at his belly. “And I’m more use to you alive than dead. If you just—”

He moved without thinking, seizing the grip of the blade and yanking it forward while spinning to one side. The morph lunged to attack reflexively, and let out a yelp as he was suddenly pulled off-balance, collapsing to the ground at Mark’s feet as the sword came free of his grasp. Mark gripped the blade tightly—and quickly darted away. Surprise was an effective weapon, but it was one you could only use once before—

Movement in the corner of his eye was all the warning he had. Not enough warning to avoid the attack. He fell with a sharp pain in his ankle, soon accompanied by a dull pain all over as he hit the ground. Before he could even think about rising, a foot was placed on his back, and he felt the cold steel of a sword pressing into his neck. “He said don’t move,” a new voice spoke. “I’d listen if I were you.”

Mark’s eyes widened, and despite the command, he lifted his head enough for his eyes to confirm what his ears were telling him. The woman from the market—the one they’d followed all the way here—was holding her sword to his throat, glaring over at Matthew. “Surrender,” she called sharply. “Or your friend dies.”

Matthew was still locked in combat with the morphs—he’d even managed to retrieve his cloak at some point—but they all broke off at the sound of her voice. He turned to face her, face falling as he saw Mark’s plight. “Dammit all,” he muttered, “can’t I take my eyes off of you for five seconds without things going wrong?”

Mark didn’t answer, gritting his teeth against the pain that still throbbed in his ankle. Three of the morphs that had attacked them were writhing on the ground in pain; a fourth was struggling to his feet, moving with the last of them to flank Matthew as he glared at the woman. “Matthew…”

“Don’t worry.” His eyes flitted around at their opponents. “I’ve got a plan.”

Mark frowned. “What plan is—”

The thief suddenly jumped back, cloak flashing; he was in a full sprint before any of them could react. Two of the morphs gave chase until the ground suddenly exploded up at them. Mark hadn’t seen Matthew use the bottle, but he recognized the effects of the alchemical mines they’d used years before. The morphs fell to the ground, earth and grass falling around them as their comrades rushed to help them back up. By the time the dust settled, there was no sign of Matthew.

Mark’s eyes widened. Apparently, the plan was to run away—leaving him behind.

The blade dug a little deeper into his neck, and he felt a rivulet of blood running down his throat. “Get back here!” the woman cried. “I’ll kill him!”

Matthew, wherever he was, didn’t respond. Mark listened to the woman’s frustrated hiss, and squeezed his eyes shut.

“Dammit,” she said at last, and the pain at his neck lessened. The blade’s sudden absence was almost as surprising as its appearance had been. “Take him.”

The morphs turned to her. “Cass—?”

 _“Don’t!_ Say my name in front of him.” She glared at them, then ripped off a portion of her black cloak. “I don’t know where your friend is going,” she said, looking down at Mark as she held out the strip of fabric, “but if he values your life, he’ll stay there.”

The cloth descended over his eyes.


	2. Chapter 2

“Take him to a cell.” The woman’s voice came from directly in front of Mark, accompanied by three sets of footsteps and the scrape of his own legs being half-dragged along the ground. They’d wrapped something around his ankle; he still couldn’t walk on his own, but at least she didn’t seem to want him to bleed out just yet.

“We don’t have cells,” the man on his left replied in a deep, penetrating voice.

“What?” The sounds were suddenly close; they must have been passing through the front gate, voices echoing off the stone. “Damn. Find a room with a lock and stick him in there.”

“There are spare rooms in our building,” the man on his right said. His voice was almost gentle. “I have the key for them.”

“Then that’s where we’ll put him,” the woman said.

There was a brief pause in the conversation as their course changed. “You know,” Lefty added in a softer voice, “we can’t let him live.”

Mark felt his pulse quicken. The woman hissed out a breath. “We’ll talk about that later.”

“Talk about it?” Lefty’s grip on his arm tightened. “You told us we were all—”

“Not in front of him,” Righty interrupted. The man’s voice was low, yet it carried a great deal of weight.

Mark could almost feel the tension crackling between the three of them. “Of course,” Lefty muttered.

Silence fell over the group once more. Mark wet his lips with his tongue, and took a breath. “I—”

“Shut up,” the woman growled. “This doesn’t involve you.”

“I _feel_ pretty involved,” Mark said.

“I _said,_ shut _up_.”

He briefly pondered disobeying, but decided against it. Now was not the time to be antagonizing his captors.

As they moved past the gate, Mark heard more footsteps in every direction, accompanied by murmuring voices. His pulse climbed higher still; there was no way to count them all, but Matthew’s assessment of an entire village’s worth now seemed conservative. Did each voice belong to a morph? They certainly seemed surprised to see him. He could only catch snatches of what they were saying. “Were we attacked?” “Who is that?”

And, most tellingly, “Is that a human?”

His feet went from stumbling across dirt to stumbling across stone as the voices fell away behind him. They must have entered one of the structures of the fort. A moment later, his good ankle struck against a hard corner; he bit back a cry of pain as he started scrambling up the staircase his captors had led him to. After a short climb, his foot plummeted through air where he expected another step, telling him he’d reached the top; after that, a left, a door opening on his right, and he was shoved forward. He managed not to fall, finding a back wall and leaning against it, taking the weight off his injury. Rapid footsteps approached, and the cloth was torn from his head, revealing the woman glaring up at him. The two men were waiting in the doorway, some twelve paces away, both wearing black cloaks and fingerless gloves; one held a short sword, the other a bow with an arrow nocked. Neither weapon was pointed at him at the moment, but he had no doubt they could be brought to bear in a heartbeat.

“Don’t try to escape,” she growled. “I’m having a hard time seeing any reason not to kill you. Don’t give me a reason not to keep you alive.”

He managed to force a smile. “Trying to escape would be a tactical error. But so would killing me.”

Her brilliant golden eyes narrowed. “Explain.”

“I’m of more use to you alive than dead.” He met her gaze. “But I’m guessing I don’t have to tell you that.”

Her frown just deepened, and she said nothing. The man with the bow, though, stirred a little. “What did you say your name was?” he asked. It was the one with the softer voice—Righty. Now that Mark could see his face, there was something unsettling about the man. Something almost… familiar?

He ignored the feeling, and forced a smile. “I didn’t, actually. But since you asked, it’s Mark.”

The man’s expression remained neutral, but the tightening of his fingers on the bow betrayed his surprise. “We should go,” he said to the others. Lefty frowned at him, but was out the door a moment later. Righty exchanged a glance with the woman before following him.

She turned back to Mark, studying his face. Her lip curled slightly before she spun away, her braid lashing out at him as she started toward the door. He did not pursue her. The door slammed behind her, and he heard her footsteps vanishing down the hall. There were a few murmured words, the clinking of keys, and the rattle of the lock—followed by a click, and two more pairs of receding footsteps.

And Mark was alone.

It was difficult to sleep with the pain in his leg—not to mention the uncertainty of the entire situation. But he forced himself to lie down and breathe deeply. It was the correct tactical decision, he told himself; he was tired from the day’s journey, and whatever the morphs had in store for him, he might as well be rested for it. Besides, there wasn’t much else he could do at present. He wasn’t sure he’d be able to sleep, but his eyelids shut to the chirps of crickets and opened to birdsong, so he was evidently successful. He congratulated himself on that small victory.

His first instinct upon waking was to examine his surroundings—a rectangle with a bed, a dusty chamberpot, and no windows. His second instinct was to fall back against the wall, gasping in pain and clutching his ankle. He didn’t get wounded often, and dammit, this _hurt._ He gingerly felt the bandage over the wound, wondering how deep “Cass” had gone, and whether he’d ever be able to walk properly again.

There was a table with two chairs in the room; he hobbled over to them and managed to sit down in one, carefully pulling his foot into his lap to examine the wound. There was still blood seeping into the makeshift bandage, although not as much as he might have expected. The woman had hit him exactly how she’d wanted, avoiding any unnecessary damage. Not that he thought it was necessary to disable him like this, but, fighting through the pain, he could understand her motives.

There wasn’t much he could do about the wound. He was no healer, and the morphs certainly hadn’t given him a vulnerary to use. He straightened up suddenly. Where _was_ his bag? He’d bought a few things at the market—mostly books—but realized now he had no idea where they were. He must have dropped it during the fight, which meant it was likely either in the hands of the morphs, or lying forgotten in front of the fort’s gates. He doubted Matthew would have stopped to grab it for him on his way out.

Matthew. Mark leaned back in his chair, looking up at the dark stone ceiling. Had the spy intuited that the woman wouldn’t make good on her threat? Or had he simply decided it was a risk worth taking? Or had there been a choice at all? After all, Matthew was now on his way back to Ostia, where he could confer with Hector and the others and make a plan. If he had surrendered, they’d both be captives, and nobody would know where to find them. It was the pragmatic decision, and Mark couldn’t say for certain he wouldn’t have done the same in Matthew’s place.

It still hurt, though, to think of the spy’s retreating back.

The lock clicked, and Mark looked over with a start. The door swung open, and Righty entered, bow pointed in the room. His eyes scanned the area briefly before settling on Mark, who held stock still as the man lowered his bow. He turned back to the door and nodded. A woman came in—younger than “Cass,” or at least she would have been, were they human. Her hair swept down no further than her shoulders, curling up at the ends, and her face was softer than the other woman’s piercing features. But she had the same black hair, red lips, and gold eyes that had gotten Mark into this mess in the first place. Instead of a weapon, she clutched a staff, holding it close to her body with both hands as though someone might try to snatch it for her. She wore plain black robes, the only adornment a gold band on one finger.

Mark straightened in his seat and turned his body toward them, teeth gritted against the pain in his foot. He must not have done a good job of hiding it; her eyes flicked down to his ankle. “I’m meant to heal you,” she said, her voice surprisingly gentle. Or perhaps it just seemed that way because she was the first person he’d seen in a while who wasn’t talking about killing him.

He smiled at her, but before he could say anything, her golden eyes returned to his face. “But only,” she went on, “if you answer our questions.”

He bit his tongue. This was dangerous territory. In the years since Nergal’s defeat, Mark had wandered Elibe, working as a tactician for militias, mercenaries, and sometimes proper military forces. Most prominent, though, was his work with Hector. If these morphs were an attack force, they might try to get him to reveal Ostia’s weaknesses. Although the last group of morphs to attack Ostia certainly hadn’t needed his help to get in.

But then, maybe this was an opportunity. Just by asking him questions, they were telling him what they wanted to know, and maybe he could puzzle out their plan from that. More information was always a good thing. And cooperating—at least for the immediate future—would open up more tactical options to him later on.

And, dammit, his ankle _really_ hurt.

“All right,” he said, leaning back in his chair. “What do you want to know?”

Righty frowned, and his grip on his bow shifted. Curls approached carefully, halving the distance between them before stopping again. “Who are you?”

“I’m Mark.” He motioned to Righty. “He knows that.”

Her expression looked anything but amused. “That’s not what I meant.”

He winced, and pulled his foot in closer. “I’m a tactician, currently in the employ of Ostia.” It wasn’t strictly a lie, and he didn’t think it was worth explaining he spent most of his time wandering.

Curls looked back at Righty, who nodded once. “I see,” she said, turning back to Mark. “How many current military actions is Ostia involved in?”

“None,” he answered. There didn’t seem any harm in answering that one truthfully.

She frowned. “None at all?”

“There are no major conflicts going on in or near the Lycian territories,” Mark said with a shrug. There were rumblings from Bern, of course, but there were almost always rumblings from Bern.

“Then what need have they for a tactician?”

This one was trickier. The challenge Mark faced was to give them enough information to make himself valuable, without doing anything that might really hurt Ostia. “Well, just because there are no major military actions doesn’t mean there aren’t skirmishes. Bandits have always plagued the Lycian League, and I help Lord Hector assign the units to fight them.”

Curls cocked her head—an unusually human gesture, and not one a seasoned interrogator would use. “You know Lord Hector? Personally?”

“We… frequently work together, yes,” Mark said.

She opened her mouth to inquire further, but Righty cleared his throat. She glanced back at him, and something indiscernible passed between the two. She turned to Mark once more, her expression as neutral as ever. “Where is the nearest garrison of Lycian troops?”

He wet his lips with his tongue. “I… can’t answer that. Because,” he went on quickly, noticing the tension in both their faces, “I don’t know where _we_ are, exactly.”

Curls opened her mouth to protest, but was interrupted from a sound behind her. Righty was— _chuckling?_ Mark hardly believed it, but that’s what was happening. He was smiling, eyes turned down, shoulders rising and falling with his soft laughter. “Wait here,” he said, meeting Mark’s gaze. “We’ll find you a map.”

Mark could only gape as Righty exited the room. Curls turned to him, still wearing the same frown she’d had since entering. “What’s wrong?” she asked.

He managed to close his mouth. “I just… I’ve never seen a morph show emotion like that before.” He paused, noting the way she raised her eyebrow—another very human gesture. “I mean,” he went on, “I’ve seen condescension, anger, cold indifference… but never _mirth._ ”

“You’ve met Sonia, correct?”

He winced. “Well, yes…”

“Then you know morphs can simulate human emotions convincingly enough, even the positive ones. Perhaps we’re only pretending to feel things to make you more comfortable.”

He looked her over a moment. She didn’t seem like she was faking—but if she was doing it well, how would he know? “Perhaps,” he conceded.

“Or,” Curls said, a bit of an edge entering her voice, “perhaps you don’t know as much about us as you think you do.”

He looked at her with wide eyes, and she smirked at his reaction. It certainly _seemed_ genuine… “Perhaps,” he said again, settling his face back into a neutral expression. He let a moment’s silence pass before speaking again. “How did you know I’d met Sonia?”

Another surprise: a hint of red touched her pale cheeks, and her eyes widened slightly before she spun away from him. “Do you want your foot healed or not?”

His feeling of triumph was quashed by the reminder of the pain in his ankle. “I do,” he said. “Sorry.”

Curls said nothing, and was still for a while. Then, her arm extended, the staff held out toward him even as she faced the other direction. The gem at the tip glowed softly, and the pain in his foot increased—only to be replaced by a rush of relief as he realized his tissues were reconnecting themselves. “That should prevent any further damage,” she muttered as she lowered the staff. “I’ll take care of the rest once we’re finished here.”

He carefully tested his ankle. It still hurt, but he’d be able to walk again. “Thank you,” he breathed.

Righty returned soon after; true to his word, he spread a map out on the table before Mark. He quickly took in as much of it as he could. It was a simple commercial map, most useful to merchants or travelers, showing very little in the way of military information. It contained most of Lycia and parts of Sacae and Etruria. “We’re here,” Righty said, pointing a short way west of Ostia. The spot he indicated was a break in the mountains separating Lycia from Etruria. Truthfully, Mark had mostly figured that out for himself, but having the exact position did help.

He took a slow breath. “I see. This must be an old Etrurian fort, then. I don’t think Lycia has anything in this spot.”

Righty lifted an eyebrow. “What _do_ they have, then?”

Mark bit his lip, studying the map. “There’s a garrison… here,” he said, pointing to a spot northeast of their position. “It’s tucked in-between some of the smaller mountains.”

Righty followed his finger, and muttered a curse under his breath. “How have we not seen that before? It’s practically on our doorstep.”

Mark nodded, his heart sinking. It must have been hours since his abduction. If Matthew had gone straight to the garrison, he would have been back with troops by now. If he’d gone all the way to Ostia instead, considering how long it had taken them to get here in the first place…

It seemed Righty wasn’t going to take that chance. He straightened up, and motioned to Curls. “Finish with his foot. I’m going to tell—” He broke off, looked back at Mark. “Well… you know.”

Curls nodded, and held out the staff again, keeping a wary eye on Mark as his muscles and skin began to heal over the wound. Righty went for the door—but had only just opened it when they heard the shouts. Mark and Curls both looked up. “What’s going on?” she asked.

Righty didn’t get the chance to answer. Running footsteps down the hall were quickly followed by the appearance of “Cass” and Lefty in the doorway. The woman—who Mark was growing more and more certain was in charge—took in the scene. “How’s his leg?” she asked.

“It should be all right,” Curls replied. “I haven’t healed it fully, but—”

“Can he walk?”

The healer blinked, taken aback at the interruption. Could morphs be taken aback? “Yes, but—”

“Cass” nodded to Lefty, who crossed the room where they were sitting, one hand on the hilt of his blade as the other looped under Mark’s arm—his right arm, confusingly. Righty quickly took his left, and the two of them pulled him to his feet.

“Come on,” the woman said as they started to bind his hands. “Your friend’s come back. And he’s brought company.”

Sanders continued to eye the blond man at his side with skepticism. Spies were always a shifty lot, and he’d never heard of any Matthew in service to Ostia. Of course, as the man pointed out to him, that was rather the point. And the papers he’d presented seemed genuine, as far as Sanders or anyone else at the garrison could tell. But the commander absolutely did not appreciate someone showing up as his doorstep and demanding he immediately send troops to some abandoned fort at the foot of the mountains, no matter who it was or who they worked for. Strictly speaking, he’d had no choice but to obey. And, given the figures he could now see scurrying around the fort walls and the shouts coming from within, it was clear that the man had been right about the fort no longer being abandoned, at least. Now to see if the rest was true.

“And do you care to tell me how Lord Hector’s pet tactician managed to wander into a hostile fort?” Sanders asked.

“I don’t, thanks for asking.” Matthew shot him a smile. “And if he is a pet, he’s one who does a horrible job of staying on his leash.”

Sanders raised an eyebrow. “And I suppose you are that leash?”

The spy’s smile remained, but his face twitched just enough for Sanders to know the insult had hit home. “All you need to know,” he said, turning back to the fort, “is that Mark’s in there, and we need to find a way to get him out. How long will your rider take to get to Ostia?”

“He’s riding one of our best horses. He should arrive within two hours.”

Matthew nodded. “Then the others will be here by day’s end.”

Sanders shrugged. He still wasn’t sure what the message meant, but it didn’t give him the same confidence the spy felt. “I’m still not sure what a morph is, but without certainty of Mark’s abduction, I doubt Lord Hector will send reinforcements anytime—”

“I don’t give a damn about reinforcements,” Matthew cut him off, “and neither will Lord Hector. He’ll leave orders to organize a squad, and ride out himself as soon as he gets the message.”

Sanders frowned. “Do you truly believe our lord is so impetuous as to—”

Matthew’s finger, his eyebrow, and the corner of his mouth rose as one. “You don’t want me to answer that, friend. Just trust me.”

Sanders stifled a huff, and turned back to the fort. “My men are in position,” he observed; the garrison’s troops had spread out around the entire fort. Hardly a siege force, but nobody was getting in or out without a fight. “But we’ve still seen no sign that Mark is in there.”

“He’s in there,” Matthew replied.

“A fact of which we’ve still seen no sign,” Sanders repeated.

Matthew’s eyes lifted to the edge of the wall. “I think you’re about to get one,” he said quietly.

Sanders followed his gaze. Three more figures had joined the ones at the wall. No—four; two of the men up there were holding someone between them. He was being held partially up by the others, clearly a captive, though at this distance, identifying any of them was difficult. The fourth figure, standing to the right of the others, motioned, and suddenly the captive was forced to his knees. The man—the _woman_ , Sanders realized with a start, noting the lightness of her figure—drew a blade, glinting in the morning’s light, and held it to the captive’s neck. Matthew tensed almost imperceptibly at his side.

“Any closer, and he dies!” the shout echoed out at them from the walls. A woman’s voice—the one holding the sword, almost certainly.

“Does that convince you?” Matthew said, his voice deathly cold.

Sanders clenched his teeth as he peered closely at the figure kneeling atop the wall. There was no way to tell who it was for certain—and he personally had never met Mark. Still… _someone_ was in danger up there. Questions of identity wouldn’t stop Hector from doing the right thing; nor should they stop his men.

He motioned to runners at his left and right. “Spread word to maintain the perimeter,” he said. “We aren’t taking our eyes off this fortress, but as long as they have their hostage, we do not approach.”

The two men nodded, and took off in opposite directions to relay the orders. Matthew gave him a slight nod. “Thank you.”

The words sounded strange, coming from him. Sanders shrugged. “Will you be attempting to scout the area?”

Matthew smiled grimly. “Level terrain, a clear view from the ramparts… even I couldn’t approach undetected. There’s nothing to do but wait.”

“Cass” let Mark stand after a few minutes. “We’re going back to your cell,” she growled. She shouted another warning to the assembled Ostian troops, then started leading him away. “Masked their approach in the sunrise,” she mumbled. “Stupid…”

Mark smiled to himself. Matthew had seen him use similar tactics in the past, and must have picked up a thing or two.

They returned to his room, but she did not leave this time. She paced back and forth, Righty and Lefty flanking him. Curls had vanished at some point after they’d hooded him. “Are you truly so important to the Ostians?” “Cass” demanded at one point, spinning to face him.

He shrugged. “I hope that Hector wouldn’t leave me to die. But if protecting his people meant sacrificing me, he’d do what he’d have to.” He swallowed; saying that last part had been harder than he’d expected.

Her steps faltered as he spoke, and she caught his eye. “Is that truly all he wants? To protect his people?”

Mark blinked. “Well, of course. Any Marquess worthy of the title would want the same.”

Her lips pursed, and she tore her gaze from him, continuing to pace. Righty leaned down a bit. “Noble sentiments,” he said. “But what of Darin? You saw firsthand how he failed to live up to such ideals.”

Mark frowned, and looked over at the man. Sonia, Darin… these morphs certainly knew a lot about what he’d seen. “Hector was part of the group responsible for taking Darin down,” he said. “Everything he does, he does for the betterment of Lycia.”

Righty lifted an eyebrow, and again, Mark felt something uncannily familiar about the man. “And what of his friends?”

Mark looked away. “I guess we’ll find out,” he said glumly.

“I guess we will,” the woman echoed, grip tightening on her blade. She nodded to the others. “Get him presentable. It seems Hector will be here soon.”


	3. Chapter 3

Hector stood with a poise Matthew would have once sworn was beyond the man, arms resting behind his back as he surveyed the fort with penetrating eyes. It was almost noon now, and the sun beat directly down upon them, occasionally interrupted by the white flag flapping in the air above their tiny group. The wind sweeping off the mountains kept them cool, and kept their capes billowing behind him. Matthew could not have planned a more regal appearance. Hector’s plate—which should have looked ridiculously oversized, but fit his frame perfectly—shone in the sunlight, and his square face, framed with wild blue hair and a matching beard, was set on the fort. A hundred paces behind them, Sanders and his men watched the scene like gathered birds of prey. Only Matthew, Oswin, and Hector himself had approached the fort walls, flying the symbol of parley.

And now they waited.

And now they were done waiting. The gates of the fort creaked open, and a small party approached. The woman they’d seen in the market was at the head; four morph escorted her, each carrying a weapon and wearing a grim expression. They’d come to talk, but they were ready to fight.

They stopped twenty paces away. The woman looked around at the others, and opened her mouth to speak. Hector chose the precise moment to beat her to it. “I am Lord Hector,” his booming voice carried across the plain. “Marquess of Ostia, and leader of the Lycian League.”

The woman flinched at being cut off, but did not cower at his voice. “I am Cassandra,” she called back. “I lead these people.”

“People?” Oswin grunted. Matthew tried not to think about how much the knight had aged over the last few years. His brown hair had begun to show flashes of grey, and his face had developed what might be described as wrinkles.

Hector motioned Oswin to silence. “I wish to see Mark.”

“He’s in our fort,” Casssandra replied. “He is safe.”

Hector nodded his understanding. “I wish to see Mark.”

Cassandra hesitated a moment. “We can conduct our negotiations without—”

Hector lifted a finger. She looked aghast at it, but was surprised enough to fall silent. “I wish,” he said again. “To see. Mark.”

The woman curled back her lips in a snarl. “Do you imagine you are in a position to make demands, Lord?”

He met her gaze evenly. “Do you?” He did not motion to the troops surrounding her fort. He did not need to.

She looked from Hector to the men in the distance and back again. Matthew caught his hand straying to his blade. Hector was treating this woman as a fellow lord—surrender, or your people will pay the price. On a human, that might work, but would this woman value the lives of her fellow morphs? Would pragmatism drive her to accept Hector’s terms, or would she simply allow her people to break themselves against the Ostian forces until none remained?

Her shoulders sagged, and Matthew felt tension he hadn’t realized was there slip from his own. She waved to the men on the wall, and a group of them vanished. Less than a minute later, two morphs emerged from the gates; they were ones Matthew recognized from the fight the night before, probably the only two left in good shape. He hoped they didn’t hold that against him. They supported a hooded figure between them, and even with a cloth obscuring his face, Matthew recognized Mark from across the plains. Again, he felt himself relaxing when he hadn’t realized he was tense. The tactician looked mostly unharmed. Even the leg wound he’d sustained seemed to have been healed—which meant the morphs wanted to keep him healthy. For now.

Matthew frowned at the thought. Was he really such a pragmatist that his thoughts went to how this would affect their negotiations, instead of simply being happy that Mark was safe? Was he any better than the woman glaring across at them? Did he even have the empathy to care if he was?

He shook the thoughts away as the morphs pulled the hood from Mark’s head. The tactician _was_ unharmed. Friend or asset, that’s all that mattered.

“Mark,” Hector said, nodding gravely to the man.

“My lord,” Mark said, keeping his eyes lowered. “I apologize for the situation.”

“I don’t blame you, Mark,” Hector responded, eyes shifting to Cassandra.

She straightened her spine. “If he had minded his own business instead of following me, we would not be in this situation.”

Hector inclined his head. “Perhaps,” he said. “But we are. And now let’s discuss how we’re going to get out of it.” He motioned, and runners rushed forward, carrying two chairs between them. They deposited one at Hector’s back, and the other was gingerly carried over to Cassandra, who eyed it warily before taking it. “Starting,” Hector went on, “with how you’re going to return Mark to us.”

She snorted. “And give up my greatest advantage?”

He tilted his head, and allowed himself a smile. “You really think I care that much about some quill-pusher? Who do you think this man is to me?”

“He’s Mark,” the man to the captive’s left said. The three Ostians started, staring at the man. He held a bow, and his jet-black hair went down past his ears. Matthew peered at his pale face; hadn’t he seen this morph somewhere before?

“Come again?” Hector asked, gaze intensifying as he looked the man over.

“Mark, no known surname,” the man repeated. “His history before six years ago is unknown. He advised Lady Lyndis of Caelin during her campaign to overthrow her uncle Lundgren. He later joined Eliwood in his search for his father, leading directly to his assisting you in your secret war against Nergal—and the morphs that served him _._ ” The man’s expression remained neutral, but his eyes bored into Hector as he spoke.

Hector’s mouth opened, but no words came. Matthew pursed his lips and stepped forward. “You’re well-informed,” he said—though the man had said nothing about Mark’s actions _since_ the war. “What’s your name?”

The man’s mouth quirked in a smile. “It’s Denning. A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Matthew.”

The spy didn’t flinch at having his name mentioned, but Oswin and Hector did, much to his chagrin. Cassandra shot Denning a glare before going on. “This tactician has helped you win many battles in the past, and could continue to do so in the future. You’re not going to risk his life by attacking us.”

Hector’s expression darkened. “You willing to bet your life on it?”

“My life,” she answered, “and the lives of every morph in those walls.”

“Maybe allowing an enemy to make their camp on my doorstep isn’t worth one man’s life,” Hector said. Mark flinched at the words, and Matthew had to look away.

Cassandra crossed her arms, studying Hector closely. The two men behind her exchanged an uncertain look. “We are not your enemy,” she said at last; her voice was so soft, Matthew almost didn’t believe it was her who’d spoken. “At least, we don’t have to be.” 

Hector looked at Matthew, who shrugged. “Explain.”

“The men and women in this fort are the stragglers of Nergal’s army,” she said. “Survivors that went unnoticed on the battlefield, or reserve units never called to combat.” She placed a hand on her chest. “I was the leader of one such reserve unit. When you defeated Nergal, I gathered what others I could find, and took them here.”

Oswin glanced over at them. “Was this part of your…” He scratched at his neck, still clean-shaven after all these years. “Your purpose? The orders Nergal put in you?”

Denning parted his lips a hair’s width, his teeth shining out at them. Grin or grimace, it was difficult to tell. Cassandra cast a look at him before continuing. “Protecting my unit was part of that, yes.”

“And bringing them here?” Oswin persisted.

Cassandra fell silent, gazing off into the distance, as though she hoped to find her words on the horizon.

“You’re trying to convince us that you’re not our enemy,” Hector growled. “But so far, all you’ve told us is that you’re reserve soldiers occupying a fort on the edge of our borders after the death of your beloved leader.”

“Beloved?” the other man snarled—the one still holding onto Mark. This one had shorter hair in a military cut, and a broad face at odds with his wiry frame. “You don’t know us at all if you think—”

He fell silent at Cassandra’s glare; she turned back to Hector, hands tightening into fists. “I was… different.”

Hector crossed his arms.

“I was able to act despite the purpose Nergal gave me. Sometimes, even against it.” She lifted her chin. “I was free. And when he died, I started to free what others I could find as well.”

All three of them—four, counting Mark—stiffened. “How?” Hector demanded.

“It’s complicated,” Cassandra said, pursing her lips. “And not important right now.” She looked back at them. “The point is, we are not here to invade Ostia. We are simply seeking out a place to live out our days. Leave us alone, and we shall do the same to you.”

Matthew could almost hear Hector’s teeth grinding. “And I am to take you at your word?” the lord spat.

“What options do you have?” Cassandra motioned to the fort behind her. “We have a stronghold, and hundreds of morphs, all of whom have been given the skill to use a blade as well as any soldier. Attack us, and you may be able to wipe us out, but you’ll pay for it with Mark’s life—and with the lives of your men.” She met Hector’s gaze. “Is that worth it to you, Lord? Do you hate us so much you’d sacrifice your own to see us gone, rather than let us live in peace?”

The three Ostians stood in silence, not daring to look at each other. Hector’s hands, still folded neatly behind his back, were trembling with fury. They had the superior numbers, and could easily overrun the morphs—but Cassandra was right; doing so would cost them many lives, starting with Mark’s. Matthew did not envy his lord the decision he had to make. Already he found he could not meet the tactician’s gaze.

Hector took a deep breath. “If you want me to believe you’re not my enemy,” he said evenly, “then return Mark to us.”

Cassandra shook her head. “That’s not going to happen. He’s the only guarantee I have that you won’t attack.”

“You have my word,” Hector said from between gritted teeth. “Return him, and we won’t attack.”

She quirked an eyebrow. “Your word?” she said. “Lord Hector, I have every reason to believe you are an honorable man, and that people can trust your word. But”—her eyes flashed to Oswin—“we are not people, are we?”

Hector’s muscles tensed, and his hand started straying dangerously close to his ax. Denning cleared his throat, looking from his leader to theirs. “Hostages have been used to secure alliances in the past,” he said. “The precedent exists.”

Matthew felt his heart speed up, and Mark’s face fell a little. “Hostage?” the tactician asked, the first thing he’d said since Hector greeted him.

“You can’t be serious,” Oswin growled. “You—”

Hector cut him off. “If it’s a hostage you want, I can find you one,” he said quickly. “We can exchange Mark for—”

“That’s _not_ ,” Cassandra repeated, “going to happen. An exchange would give you an opportunity to cheat us or attack us.” She glanced at Mark, and then returned her gaze to Hector. “Your loyalty to your friend is admirable. But it’s also exactly why we need to keep him.”

Hector’s hands were both clenched into fists now. “You can’t afford to make an enemy of us,” he growled.

“And you can’t afford to attack while we have him,” she countered. “This is the only way I can be sure.”

The air between them seemed to crackle, and Matthew moved his hand closer to his concealed blade. If a fight broke out here, he might be able to get to Mark before—

Hector slumped backward, the fight draining from his face. “We’ll need proof of his continued health,” he said, almost whispering.

Mark, Matthew, and Oswin could only gape at him. Cassandra nodded. “He can write you monthly letters.”

“Weekly,” Hector said, drawing up his shoulders.

She looked ready to deny him, then stopped, glancing at her captive. “Very well. Weekly. Your men at the garrison can pick them up.”

Hector glared at her. “Try to forge the letters, or force him to lie, and we’ll know.”

She spread her hands before her. “We have nothing to hide from you, Lord. As I’ve said, we just wish to live in peace.”

“Peace?” he shook his head. “This is not the way to peace.”

“Perhaps,” she conceded. “But it’s the way to survival.”

Hector pursed his lips, then turned to summon a scribe. Within a few minutes, they had an agreement drawn up, Matthew advising Hector to account for every loophole Cassandra might exploit. The Ostian lord stamped it with his seal, then handed it to Cassandra with a quill and a glare. She marked it with her own signature and returned it to him.

Hector handed the signed document to the scribe, then looked uncertainly over at his tactician. “Mark,” he said, “I…”

Mark lowered his eyes. “It’s all right, my lord.” His voice was trembling. “It… you made the tactically sound decision.”

Hector bit his lip, and turned away. Matthew forced himself to meet Mark’s gaze when the tactician’s eyes lifted. “We’ll get you out of here,” he mouthed.

Mark smiled sadly back at him. It was not the smile of someone who believed you.

“Matthew,” Oswin said, laying a hand on the spy’s shoulder. He let the gentle pressure turn his body until he was facing away, and the two of them strode after their lord. They’d need to return to Ostia, and—

“My lord?”

Hector stopped, turning slowly to face Cassandra. It was the first time she’d called him “my” lord.

She looked suddenly unsure, standing there with one hand on the hilt of her blade, the other hanging at her side. “I… you only want to do what’s best for your people,” she said. “To keep them safe—to keep them all safe.” She looked at Mark, then at Hector. “I… understand how you feel. I wish the same thing.” She bit her lip, and lowered her eyes. “I’m sorry that our shared goals have put us at odds.”

Hector’s jaw tightened as he looked her over. “Not as sorry as I am,” he replied.

He turned once more, and this time, she said nothing to call them back.

“It’s over,” Lefty breathed; his eyes were fixed forward, as if he wasn’t even paying attention to where they were leading Mark. “It’s finally over.”

“It’s just beginning,” Cass—who Mark now knew was named Cassandra—said quietly.

Mark risked a glance over his shoulder, and managed to catch one last glimpse of Matthew as the gates swung shut. He hadn’t expected the guilt on the thief’s face—not that he’d expected any of this. Despite everything, beyond all reason, he’d expected Hector to get him out of there, somehow. But he couldn’t blame the lord for how things turned out; it had been, as he’d said, the tactically sound decision.

“Take him back to his cell,” Cassandra said.

Righty—Denning—frowned at her. “You mean his room?”

“Call it what you like,” she spat. “I have work to do.” She turned and started away.

Denning looked like he was about to call after her, but stopped himself. Lefty cast him a disapproving look before hauling Mark toward the building where his room was.

Division in the ranks. Perhaps Mark could find a way to exploit this weakness. Gods knew he didn’t have much else to work with right now.

The two morphs returned him to his room. Lefty swept out almost immediately after shoving Mark into his chair, but Denning lingered. “How’s the foot?” he asked, golden eyes probing the tactician.

“Better,” Mark mumbled. His tongue felt unexpectedly heavy in his mouth.

“Grace never finished healing it, did she?” He looked at Mark for a moment, then went on when he didn’t get a response. “I’ll tell her to come by.”

_So Curls is really called Grace. That’s three names I know._ Mark looked up at him. “Will there be a guard?”

“No.” He paused, and his shoulders slumped. “Probably. I don’t know if…” He glanced up at Mark, gold eyes shimmering, and then looked away. “I shouldn’t be talking to you. I’m sorry.”

_Me, too._ He couldn’t find the energy to say the words aloud.

Lefty looked in the door, and shot a glare at Denning. The bowman returned the glare. “I’ll be back,” he said, and left without another word.

Mark was alone, again. Except this time there was no hope of rescue. Hector had been handed an impossible situation, and made an impossible choice. Mark didn’t blame him for that. The morphs, if Cassandra was to be believed, were just trying to survive. He couldn’t blame them for that, either. It didn’t mean he was pleased with the outcome. For the foreseeable future, this was his life; and while he seemed to have an ally in Denning for whatever reason, the others were determined to keep him locked away. Perhaps he should simply let himself die; then Hector’s hands would no longer be tied, and…

He shuddered. No, that was a good way to make sure that nobody got what they wanted, and he was not so spiteful as to seek death for that reason.

Which simply meant that, one way or another, he was going to have to live with this.

“It was supposed to be one week,” Hector murmured.

Matthew blinked, glancing over at him. “My lord?”

“Mark was supposed to visit us for one week,” Hector said. “And just days before he’s due to leave, we lose him.”

Matthew grimaced. _No._ We _didn’t lose him._

“Find a way, Matthew,” Hector said sternly. His hands were tight on the reins, but his eyes barely seemed to see where they were going. “I don’t care what it takes. You get him out of there.”

“I will,” Matthew promised. “I just… don’t know how yet, ok? It’s not like we can exactly sneak somebody in there.”

“We should contact our allies,” Oswin said, eyes scanning the ground. “Together, maybe…”

“Most of our allies don’t even know what a morph is,” Hector sighed. “And it’s best to keep it that way. If information about Nergal and his efforts spread, we’d have some very difficult questions to answer.”

Matthew nodded. “Worse, they’ll have trouble accepting that we’re staying our attack for the sake of a hostage who isn’t even noble.” He let out a breath. “There are other tacticians.”

“This isn’t a problem might alone can solve,” Hector sighed. He grimaced. “I _hate_ those. Remember when all I had to do to solve a problem was to put an ax in somebody’s head?”

“No,” Oswin said with a smirk, “because that didn’t actually solve the problem; it just left Lord Uther and I to clean up after you.”

Hector lowered his eyes. “Well. I still miss those times.”

Matthew looked the two of them over. For a moment, Hector had looked five years younger, still the brash lord who wanted nothing to do with governing a nation, but only desired to support his friends. “What do you want to do, then?”

Hector drew himself up a little. “As much as I want to burst through those gates and get Mark out, first, we need to investigate what Cassandra said. Was she truly able to act against Nergal’s orders? If so, why, and how?” He looked over at Matthew. “For that, we need brains, not brawn. Canas, Erk… Pent, if he’s available. Anyone who knows a thing or two about morphs and the magic that goes into them. We’ll need to alert Eliwood and Lyn, of course, and…” He stroked his beard, which still looked foreign on his face. “Is Lucius still courting Serra?”

Matthew caught himself chuckling. It felt good. “I don’t know if ‘courting’ is the word I’d use with those two, but she hasn’t stopped writing him letters since he left with Raymond.”

“Well, tell her it’s time to invite him back. We’re going to need all the help we can get.”

Matthew nodded, looking up toward the sun, hoping its glare would burn the image of Mark’s eyes from his mind.


	4. Chapter 4

Mark stared at the parchment before him; the only mark on it so far was a drop of ink that had fallen from his quill as it hovered over the page. He dipped the quill in the ink bottle again, despite the fact that it was already full, and let out a sigh. How was he supposed to write this letter?

“Just be honest,” Denning said.

Mark flinched, and looked back at where the morph stood. Though he’d initially just brought Mark a lamp to light the table-turned-desk, Denning lingered in the room, watching over his shoulder.

“Is that really what you want?” Mark asked.

Denning shrugged. “It’s what our agreement with Hector says.”

“And what would Cassandra say if she were here?”

Denning’s eyes narrowed. “Cassandra’s a woman of her word. She wouldn’t ignore the agreement just for the sake of convenience.” He turned to look at the door. “Not all of us were made for deception, you know.”

Mark frowned at the man, but he couldn’t sense any dishonesty from him. Denning had been visiting him regularly over the last week, occasionally with Grace in tow to check on his health, and those visits were about the only thing keeping Mark sane. And if Cassandra had been worried about what he’d write in the letter, she’d have come herself to watch him write it.

Sighing, Mark turned back to his desk. Given how long it had taken him to decide what to write, actually writing it went surprisingly quickly. He marked it with his name, and presented it to Denning. The morph did not look down long enough to read any of the words, merely taking in the letter itself. “Rather short,” he noted.

“There’s not much to say.”

Denning gave a slow nod, then motioned to the door. He still had his bow slung across his back, carrying no other weapons than a small knife. Still, Mark did not doubt that the bow would be nocked and aimed in a heartbeat if needed. He kept one eye on it as he rose and pulled on the door, relieved to have it swing open. This would be his first time leaving the room in a week, and he was trying not to show how excited he was to step outside.

Denning led Mark to the hall, the stairs, the front door—and then they were out. The sun had never looked more beautiful, and the way it washed the world in light and color seemed impossible to Mark’s dulled eyes. He paused as long as he dared to take it in, letting his lungs fill with fresh air and ears ring with the sounds of the fort.

Though, even as he took it all in, a pit formed in his stomach. If he was like this after just one week of being locked up, how would he be after a year of it?

“Come on,” Denning said softly. “Cassandra wanted to supervise this first delivery. She’ll be upset if we tarry too long.”

Mark nodded, casting one last look at the late summer sun before stepping out into the fort. It was the first time he’d been brought through here without a hood—something he was sure Denning had spent a great deal of time and energy convincing Cassandra not to use—and was surprised at what he saw. In-between the crumbling stone structures original to the fort, the morphs had erected several wooden buildings. Most of them looked residential, though Mark identified what appeared to be a butcher’s shop and a bakery. Morphs shuffled down the tight streets, going about seemingly mundane tasks; rather than weapons, most of them carried baskets or jugs.

All of them, of course, stopped what they were doing the instant they saw him. He grew uncomfortably aware of just how alien he must look to them, his light hair and dark eyes almost directly inverse to their own. Some went as far as to rush inside when they saw him coming. Was he truly so threatening?

“Denning,” he asked at length, “why are you so nice to me?”

Denning looked at him in surprise, before lifting his bow and his lips wryly. “You call this being nice?”

Mark felt a smile tugging at the corners of his own mouth. It was a strange sensation after being locked up for nearly a week. “You’re the only one who comes to visit. You’re the only one who doesn’t look at me like I’m going to rain destruction down on the fort. Hell—you’re the only one who talks to me at all.”

Denning studied his eyes for a moment, then looked back forward. “We’ve crossed paths before,” he said.

Triumph thrilled briefly in Mark’s heart. “I knew it! Where?”

Denning shrugged. “I’m not surprised you can’t place me. It was a rather hectic situation, we were both busy, and this is a message from Lord Nergal. ‘I await you at the Dread Isle.’”

Mark’s jaw actually fell open. “You—from Ostia—the morph commander—!”

Denning chuckled, turning at last to smile at his companion. “I’m a little disappointed that the great tactician Mark couldn’t piece it together himself.”

Mark could only continue gaping. “But… you… the Ostians…”

Denning nodded. “You held us off long enough for reinforcements to arrive, yes, and they managed to route my forces. Though my purpose was to stay in the castle, they drove me further and further back, until I was cast out, bloodied and broken. As far as they could tell, I was dead. A few more minutes, and I would have been.”

Mark shook his head. “How did you survive?”

“Grace.”

It took Mark a moment to remember that Denning wasn’t talking about an abstract concept, but the curly-haired healer.

Denning’s expression took on a different cast as he spoke. “Cassandra was already gathering and freeing morphs at the time. A small company of her followers were hiding outside Ostia, hoping to save my forces. By the time they caught up to us, I was the only one left alive. Grace found me, and healed my body; then, she brought me to Cassandra, who healed my mind.” His right hand was toying with something on his left as he spoke, though Mark couldn’t see what it was under the gloves.

“Cassandra freed you?”

Denning nodded. “Otherwise, you and I wouldn’t be having this conversation. I’d just be telling you over and over that a dead man was awaiting you on an island.” He smiled again. “Or I’d have shot you on sight.”

Mark remembered seeing Denning before. The tactician usually stayed back from the front lines, but as they’d pressed on to the throne room of Castle Ostia, he’d caught a glimpse of the morph commander, gold eyes flashing out from under his cowl as arrow after deadly arrow sprung from his bow. He felt himself shiver. “I guess so.”

Denning’s smile faded. “I didn’t mean to…” He sighed, shaking his head. “Mark, I tell you this to show what kind of person Cassandra is. She risked her life to help me and others like me.” He motioned to the buildings around them, and the faces peering at them through the windows. “She led us all here, where we can live out our lives as if we were normal people.”

“And she took me hostage,” Mark said quietly, “to protect you all.”

Denning’s shoulders slumped as he nodded. “She doesn’t want to keep you here,” he said. “Were she able to, I’m sure she’d set you free.”

Mark looked down at the letter in his hands. “Maybe.”

They emerged from between two buildings, and found themselves fifty paces from the fort’s entrance. There was a large open area here, as though the morphs had avoided building their homes too close—probably to make sure they had room to get carts in and out. Cassandra and Lefty were already there. Mark advanced warily, Denning at his side. Cassandra’s eyes flicked to him, then to the letter he held. “You ready?” she said. Her voice was harsher than he’d expected. This had been her idea, after all.

“Yes,” he muttered. He looked at the gate. “Has the messenger arrived?”

“Our lookouts have spotted him about a mile away. He should be here soon.” She jerked her head at Mark. “Make it quick. I have work to do.”

Mark frowned, an expression that was mirrored by Denning. The four of them started toward the gates as a group of muscular morphs shoved them open. The group stood in the entryway, looking out over the vast, empty expanse of the valley; the sky was pale against the deeper blue of the mountains, and the wind carried scents of grass and rain to Mark’s nose. He scanned the horizon for the Ostian messenger, but it took him a while to spot the dark form of—

He gave a start. “Matthew?”

Cassandra’s eyebrows were already up. “Bold of him to return,” she said, looking over at Mark. “He must miss you.”

“I somehow doubt that,” Mark muttered.

The spy’s mount carried him quickly through the valley, only slowing once he was a hundred paces from them. He pulled his horse to a stop five paces away and slid noiselessly from the saddle. He nodded at the group as he stepped into the shadow of the gate. “Mark. It’s good to see you well.”

“You, too,” the tactician said, eyeing him. “Also confusing.”

Matthew smirked. “I happened to be in the area. Thought I’d help Sanders out and get the letter myself.”

Mark nodded slowly, still not sure whether or not the spy had something up his sleeve. Was he here for some kind of rescue attempt? Or was he simply suffering from a guilty conscience?

“The letter.” Cassandra motioned at the parchment clutched in Mark’s hands. “Don’t tarry, now.”

Mark glanced at her, then looked away. Denning might well be right about Cassandra, but she’d never looked on Mark with anything but contempt. He handed the letter to Matthew, his hand falling to his side as the spy tucked it under his cloak.

“Good,” Cassandra said. “Now, Matthew, I suggest you be on your—”

She heard it before Mark did, cutting off and spinning around. The scream echoed through the fort walls to his ears a moment later. All of them turned just in time to glimpse the situation through the open gate. A horse bolted through the fort, a harness hanging partly off of it—and a morph woman, clinging to the straps, being pulled along beside it. Sharp hooves galloped dangerously close to scrambling feet, and her long black dress dragged behind her, threatening to trip them both. Even if it had been safe for her to let go of the reins, she didn’t appear to have the presence of mind to do so.

In the space between heartbeats, Mark took in the scene. The horse and its unwilling cargo were fifty paces away. Cassandra was already dashing into the fort, apparently having forgotten all about her hostage. Denning was also turned toward them, but he had one eye still on the tactician. And Lefty, glaring at Mark with hatred, was already reaching to snatch him.

Mark knew he had only an instant to act, and did so. He ran—

Into the fort. Lefty’s hand closed on empty air behind him, and he heard Denning and Matthew cry out in harmonized confusion. Cassandra didn’t even spare him a glance; she was already two lengths ahead of him. She was much quicker, but he immediately spotted her error; she was running toward where the horse was, not where it would be. Fast as she was, she’d never be able to catch up to a frightened horse. This called for another tactic.

As his feet ran through the fort, his mind ran through the brief journey through it earlier. He mapped the positions of all the structures he’d seen, simultaneously thinking back on every encounter he’d had with a horse in the past, be it on the battlefield or in the training yard. Something had spooked this beast, and it was just trying to get away. Where would it go? Angles and corners formed up in his mind, and he made a swift turn, planting himself in the middle of a passageway between two stone structures.

The horse rounded the corner moments after he arrived. He wet his lips as it approached, sparing a glance at the woman; her gold eyes, wide with fear, met his for an instant. He took a breath, and held up a hand. “Whoah!” he called in a voice both soothing and commanding—a voice he’d heard knights use hundreds of times. “ _Whoah!”_

The horse’s eyes fixed on him, and its gallop slowed to a trot. Mark took a couple steps back, moving with the mount, until its nuzzle just barely brushed his hand. “There you go,” he said softly, gently taking the reins. “That’s good. You’re all right. Everything’s all right.”

He stepped to one side to help the woman down—and found Cassandra had beaten him to it. She glared at him, one of her hands around the woman’s waist, the other on her blade. He was suddenly aware of a trickle of sweat running down his back. His feet itched to turn and run, but he kept his weight firmly on them, and pushed forward the hand holding the reins. “Here,” he said.

Cassandra didn’t move, but the other woman reached forward, taking the reins and letting her fingers linger on his. Her hair draped over her shoulders like a cat, and while her dress was indeed black, it was also trimmed with gold thread, and had a neckline designed to draw the eye—as it was drawing his now, he realized with embarrassment.

“My hero,” the woman said in a low, sweet voice, fluttering jet-black eyelashes at him.

It was all Mark could do not to gape. Not only was she surprisingly collected, considering she’d been screaming in terror a few seconds earlier—but was she _flirting_ with him?

Shouts from behind. Mark turned just in time to see Lefty racing toward him, Denning and Matthew hot on his heels. Then the world jerked upward, and Mark found himself on the ground, clutching at his throat and wheezing in pain. Lefty planted his knee on Mark’s chest and drew back his fist for another strike, his other hand going to his blade—

“Gavin!”

Lefty’s golden eyes snapped up, fixing on Cassandra. She was still holding the hilt of her own sword, a few inches of steel glinting in the afternoon sun. The other woman watched over her shoulder with wide eyes. “Stand down,” Cassandra said firmly.

Lefty—Gavin—hesitated, releasing his weapon. “He tried to escape—”

“No.” Denning stood over the man, shaking his head. “He had the _opportunity_ to escape. He tried to help.”

Gavin’s eyes flicked to the woman. “Did he hurt you?”

“He _helped_ me,” she replied. “Just as Denning said.”

Under the glares of both Denning and Cassandra, Gavin finally relented, lifting his knee and letting air suck into Mark’s lungs. The tactician rose with as much grace as he could muster under the circumstances, painfully aware that all sets of eyes were on him, including those of a small crowd of spectators they’d drawn. He looked around at them, forcing himself finally to settle on Cassandra’s eyes.

To his surprise, she looked away first, turning to the other woman. “What happened, Ellain?” she asked.

The smaller woman pouted. “Nothing ‘happened.’ I was just hitching him up to the wagon for a supply run when he spooked and bolted. I was too surprised to do anything but scream.” She smiled at Mark, tilting her head invitingly. “I’m lucky you were there, sir tactician.”

He felt himself flush a little, and immediately berated himself for it. She was just manipulating him—wasn’t she?

Cassandra shook her head. “You’d have better waited until the Ostian messenger was gone. It was a bad time to be leaving the fort.”

“Not bad timing for him,” Gavin growled, eyes darting to Matthew. “You set this up, didn’t you?”

Matthew blinked once, looking intimidated; Mark might have believed the act if he didn’t know Matthew probably had at least three concealed blades ready to draw. “What? You think I broke into your fort without anyone noticing and set up something to spook a horse at the exact moment I was getting the letter to give Mark an opportunity to escape?” He smirked. “You give me too much credit, friend.”

“All you’d have to do is release a mouse, or use another of those exploding bottles, or—”

“There was no mouse,” Ellain said firmly. “Believe me, I’d know. And there was no explosion; the horse just grew frightened.” She hesitated, and turned to Cassandra. “This was one of the ones we got from Laus last week. Perhaps he hasn’t fully become accustomed to…” She motioned to the group—at least, the parts of it that weren’t human.

Cassandra’s frown had remained fixed on her face throughout the entire discussion. “Perhaps. But it _was_ a bad time to be heading out on a supply run, with the messenger coming. You should check with me before leaving from now on.”

“But you’re so busy all the time,” Ellain sighed, running a hand along Cassandra’s arm. “Why bother you with something as insignificant as—”

Cassandra brushed her hand away. “Check. With. Me.” She turned her gaze to Matthew. “You may go. And I suggest you do so before any more trouble starts.”

Matthew looked at Gavin, meeting the morph’s naked hostility with a neutral smile. “As you wish, my lady.” Showing no concern at being surrounded by hundreds of morphs, he began making his way toward the gate.

Mark nodded at him as he passed. “Thank you for coming,” he said softly.

Matthew slowed his pace just long enough to whisper, “We haven’t forgotten you. We’ll get you out somehow. In the meantime, keep playing it smart. You’ll be all right.”

And he was gone, sweeping off toward the gate.

“I think I hate that man,” Gavin grumbled.

“I was just thinking of how much he reminded me of you,” Denning replied.

By the time Mark turned back, Cassandra was directly in front of him, Denning and Gavin taking their usual places at his side. Ellain studied him with concern, but kept her distance. Cassandra nodded to him with an expression he couldn’t quite read. “Time to go back to your room.”

Mark looked up at the blue sky, and took one last deep breath of outside air.

_My Lord Hector,_

_My time as a hostage is off to an inauspicious start. I have not been allowed to leave my room, which has no windows. My delivery of this letter to your messenger will be the first time I see the sun since you left. The isolation has also worn on me, although one of the morph guards does take time to speak to me and inquire after my well-being at least once a day. I am being fed, and have no trouble sleeping—there is precious little else to occupy my time. The thrust is, I am alive and healthy, at least for now._

_I’ve learned little in my time here, but I’ve noticed something odd about Cassandra and her morphs. I’d previously thought morphs to be incapable of true feeling, given our encounters with Ephidel, Sonia, and Limstella. But these morphs seem to experience true emotions, and a wide variety of them, from anger to fear and even amusement. Whether these are genuine feelings or just elaborate simulations is impossible to say, but it happens frequently enough that I have begun to take it for granted that they feel the same way humans do._

_I fear I have little else to tell you at this time. Perhaps my future letters will be more entertaining, though I doubt it._

_Ever your servant,_

_Mark_

Hector lowered the letter with a frown. It was about all he could expect, and yet… “And he appeared to be in good health?” he asked Matthew.

The spy nodded at him from across the large table where they all sat. The buttresses of Castle Ostia rose above the group, and light filtered in through the windows to dance over the floor. “Good enough, at least for now. He didn’t seem afraid. Well… no more so than you’d expect.”

Serra winced, running hands through her pink hair. She’d begun wearing it down recently, something Hector was sure had to do with the blond monk sitting next to her. “If they don’t take care of him, he’ll starve to death.”

“They wouldn’t do that,” Oswin said firmly. “Losing Mark to poor health would lose them the protection he affords.”

Lucius nodded his agreement, looking over at Serra with soft eyes. Of everyone at the table, he’d changed the least over the last five years, still looking soft and fragile with long, effeminate hair, but possessed of an inner strength none could quite fathom. “They’ll keep him safe,” he told Serra. “They have to.”

“They will if they know what’s good for them,” Raven growled. His red hair had grown out since Hector last saw him, and his arms were crossed over his broad chest. He sat next to Lucius, opposite Serra. Hector wasn’t sure why he’d come, but he’d refused to leave Lucius’s side since their arrival.

“But that doesn’t mean they’ll treat him well,” Matthew said darkly. “Their leader, Cassandra… she’s a woman of her word, from what I’ve seen, but she’s also a pragmatist. If she sees no reason to keep him in anything but the barest minimum of good health…”

Hector found he was rubbing his temples, and forced himself to lower his hand. _Calm. Confidence. They’re looking to you to lead, and lead you shall._ He was sounding more and more like his brother every day. “Let’s worry about the problems we can solve,” he said. “What word from the others?”

Matthew glanced at Serra, who had turned her head pointedly away from him, and let out a sigh. “Word’s been sent to Pherae and Caelin both. Lord Eliwood and Lady Lyndis hope to come here as soon as they’ve settled issues at home. Our messengers should be reaching Reglay any day now. There are still more allies we could contact...”

“Not yet,” Hector said. “The fewer people who know about this situation, the better.” He sat back, tapping his fingers on the table—another nervous habit he needed to break. He looked at the table’s final occupant. “In the meantime, what do you think of the letter?”

Canas shifted in his seat, looking nervous. The dark-haired scholar always looked nervous, of course, robes rustling as he adjusted his monocle. “Well, I… that is… I fear I still know disappointingly little about morphs, my lord. I studied them as much as I was able during the war, of course, but there was so much I still hoped to learn, and… well, even more I feared to learn.” He looked down at the books spread out before him. “I’ve brought everything I could, but what you asked me, I…”

Hector stopped him with a wave of his hand. “Let’s focus on one question at a time. What Mark said in his letter—could a morph experience emotion?”

Canas pursed his lips, glancing at the empty seat at his side. Hector knew the scholar had hoped his wife would accompany him to Ostia, but ultimately, she’d chosen to remain with her own research—and their son. “Perhaps,” Canas murmured. “I’ve speculated with a colleague about this. Morphs may not be able to feel emotions as we understand them—everything they have was given to them by Nergal, after all, so he’d have crafted their feelings as much as anything else.” He shrugged. “But does being constructed make them any less real? I fear there’s no way to know for certain.”

“It could be that they’re simply pretending, in order to manipulate Mark,” Matthew said quietly. “The morph woman he saved from the out-of-control horse, she… flirted with him a little afterward.”

Serra sat up straight in her chair. “She _what?”_

Lucius glanced at her in surprise before turning to Matthew. “You think they might be trying to play on his sympathies?”

“Perhaps,” Matthew said. He looked at Hector. “I’m not saying he isn’t loyal, my lord. Simply that the morphs might be trying to appear more human to him, even befriend him, to get him on their side as well as ours.”

“He wouldn’t do that,” Raven said. He glanced at Lucius. “Would he?”

Hector felt his frown deepening. “We’ll have to keep an eye on that,” he mumbled. “There’s just so much we don’t know…”

Canas raised a tentative hand. “I will lend you as much aid as I can, my lord,” he began. “But there is one who knows even more than I—the colleague I mentioned earlier. I doubt he’d appreciate being disturbed, but under the circumstances—with our friend in danger, and with a surviving morph colony—he might be willing to help.” He took a breath. “The Bishop Renault.”

“No!”

All eyes turned to Serra in shock. The cleric was standing up, her seat pushed back a few inches by her sudden rise. “You can’t,” she said, gazing at Hector. “You can’t bring Renault here.”

Anger and confusion roiled in his mind. “And why in blazes not?”

“Because—”

She cut off, and looked down at Lucius’s hand, which had just gently settled on to hers. She looked at the monk, who held her gaze for a long moment; Hector had no idea what passed between them, but something certainly did, for when she looked away, she seemed about to cry. Lucius lowered his eyes for a moment before looking up at the shaman. “That’s a good idea, Canas. Father Renault would be a good man to have on our side here.” He hesitated, then added, “If you tell him that I’m here… I believe he’ll come.”

The room was silent after that, the air heavy with the burden of unspoken words. Matthew cleared his throat. “I’ll reach out to our contacts,” he said. “See if anyone knows what Bishop Renault’s been up to since the war.”

“Do it.” Hector looked over at Lucius and Serra, seeing the way he held her hand, and felt his heart aching. He wished for the hundredth time that his wife was attending this meeting. He needed her advice. And her company. “In the meantime, Lucius, Canas, go over your research and learn whatever you can. Keep us informed—and pray that this ends well.”

As the group dispersed, Hector took Matthew aside. “The thing with the horse,” he said quietly. “You were being truthful when you said you had nothing to do with that?”

The thief nodded. “I’d considered something like that, but it left too much to chance. In truth, milord, I suspect one of the morphs—a man named Gavin—set it up, to give himself the chance to kill Mark for trying to escape.”

Hector suppressed a shiver. “He must know what would happen if he did.”

“Perhaps he thinks they can survive our attack. Or perhaps he’s so blinded by hate that he doesn’t care.”

Hector pinched the bridge of his nose. “A man my size is not built for this kind of balancing act, Matthew,” he muttered. “Still, with you there, Mark might have made it. Why not take the chance to flee?”

Matthew smiled sadly. “If Mark made the decision, then you know it was the tactical one, milord.” He looked up at the windows. “By helping the woman Ellain, he gained something that—in the long run—might be more valuable than his freedom.”

Hector nodded. “Indeed. He gained their trust.” He followed the thief’s gaze, studying the dust swirling in the sunlight. “I only hope it was a worthwhile trade."


	5. Chapter 5

Cassandra put down the quill, giving Denning an exasperated look. "You want to _what?_ "

"I want to walk him," Denning answered, doing his best not to wither under her gaze.

She shut the ledger she'd been working on. Cassandra had made her home in one of the buildings original to the fort, and the slam of the book echoed off the cold stone of the walls. "He's not a hound, Denning."

"No," he answered, eyes narrowing. "A hound is allowed to roam, to hunt, to be at its master's side."

She frowned. "A hound is kept because it serves a purpose."

"So does Mark, as you well know. His next letter to the Ostians is due soon, and in his state—"

"His state?" she interrupted. "He's been eating and sleeping, hasn't he? He's fine."

"He's been eating what little we provide, yes," Denning demurred, "but he hasn't left his room since his last delivery. Grace has examined him, and she fears his health will deteriorate."

Cassandra laughed. "So she's in on this with you, is she? I should have guessed."

Denning ignored the jibe. "She says he needs regular exercise to maintain his well-being."

"Does someone who spends all his time poring over books get that much exercise to begin with?"

"The point is, if this keeps up, the Ostians won't care what is or isn't in his letters. They'll be able to see for themselves how we're treating him, and they may decide we aren't holding up our end of the agreement."

She frowned down at the ledger. "He's being treated better than the humans treat their prisoners."

"He's not a prisoner," Denning said firmly. "He's a hostage. And if I can't make you see the difference, you can be sure Lord Hector will."

Cassandra's gaze flicked up. She eyed him for a moment, then rose, going to the window. He didn't need to follow her gaze to know she was looking out at the people—the morphs—milling about the fort. The lives she'd taken into her hands. The lives she was now risking.

"He helped Ellain," Denning added softly. "When he could have tried to escape, he saved her life."

"He did." She began rubbing her face. "Are you sure that wasn't a trick?"

"Gavin and I have each gone over the area a dozen times," Denning answered. "There was no evidence of magic or alchemy. It's as Ellain said; it seems the horse simply wasn't acclimated to…" he lifted his unnaturally pale hands. "…this."

Her shoulders fell. "I brought us here so we could die with dignity." Her voice was barely above a whisper. "Instead, we are surrounded by reminders that we were never meant to be."

Denning shook his head. "You've done more than we could have ever asked for."

She was silent a moment.

"About Mark…"

"Do it." She turned back to her desk and began walking toward it. "Keep at least one other guard with you at all times, and you should keep him from speaking to the others, but you have my permission to take him from his room and escort him around the fort for the sake of keeping him healthy."

Denning felt every muscle in his body relax. "Thank you," he said, offering a small bow. He paused before turning to leave. "Will you be joining us? You've accompanied him every other time he's been out."

She laughed, and slapped a hand on the ledger. "I've still got four thousand gold to account for from last season, and provisions to plan for the next. I can't afford to take time away from my work to walk the hound."

Denning's lip twitched, but he bowed again, and left.

The sun seemed almost unbearable as Mark stepped out into it. This time, it had been only five days since he'd last been outside, yet it felt even longer than his previous confinement. An effect of hopelessness setting in, of the days blurring into each other? He pondered the psychological effects of imprisonment, and how one might use them to ply information from a captive.

He shuddered at the paths his mind followed, and forced it to turn to brighter thoughts. Bright like the sun overhead, bright like the birdsong that greeted him, and bright like the smile that Denning wore.

"I'm glad to see you enjoying yourself." The morph's bow and quiver were strapped to his back, but he didn't seem worried about using them. His hands, still clad in his usual fingerless gloves, were relaxed at his sides, nowhere near the weapon. He'd taken up his usual position at Mark's right.

"I'm glad to be outside," Mark answered. He looked over at the man. "Why are you doing this?"

"You need to keep your strength up," a small voice at his other side answered. "To neglect your exercise would be to violate our agreement with Ostia."

Mark turned in her direction. For the first time, the morph at his other flank was not Gavin. The small healer with curly hair, Grace, had accompanied Denning to his room; her staff was strapped to her back, and she carried a tome under her arm, keeping enough of the cover exposed to let Mark know he'd be facing her magic if he tried anything.

Not that he intended to try anything. Doing so would mean violating the agreement—not to mention leaving himself unarmed in the middle of at least a hundred angry morphs. Besides, as unpleasant as his imprisonment was, it also represented an unparalleled opportunity to learn. Already he'd seen things that turned his assumptions about morphs on their heads, and Cassandra appeared to have no desire to keep him from sharing this knowledge with Hector. How much more might he learn, now that he was being let outside?

"Come on," Grace said, looking uncomfortable. "The sooner we get going, the sooner we can return." She motioned with her free hand. "Lead the way, Denning."

He smiled, and inclined his head to her before beginning the walk. Mark fell in behind him, Grace taking up the rear, still fingering the tome that seemed to weigh as much as she did. Mark was already partially familiar with the layout of the fort, but going through it slowly like this allowed him to fill the gaps in his knowledge. Smoke belched from the roof of one of the stone buildings, and Mark glimpsed the glow of a forge through the open door. There were shops amongst the new buildings too, including a potter, a carpenter, and more. It was stunning to realize just how many artisans were among the morphs; having a smith in your army made sense, but Mark had a hard time believing Nergal had created morphs specifically for pottery.

 _Perhaps they're branching out from their intended purposes, creating things necessary for daily life? But where do they get the raw materials? Do they have enough gold to trade with the outside world? How do they make more?_ A multitude of questions, and despite Denning seeming to have taken a liking to him, Mark didn't think it wise to pelt him with them. He kept his thoughts to himself, for the most part.

He stopped, looking at his two escorts. "Not that I don't appreciate the air," he said, "but are you sure Cassandra wants me seeing all this? What if I tell the Ostians about your defenses?"

Grace gave a rare smirk, and Denning spread his arms. "Every morph here can wield a blade as well as a seasoned knight. We are _all_ defenses."

Mark shivered as he realized just how true that was.

They continued on, spending the better part of an hour traversing the fort, putting Mark's neglected muscles to work. Mark was still collecting looks from the morphs they passed, though there was less fear in them than the week before. Now, most just glared at him before moving on. He wasn't sure whether that qualified as an improvement.

Denning led them into an open spot—the southeast corner of the fort, Mark surmised, looking up at the sun. It shone directly down on rows of plants nestled between the walls; morphs wiped sweat from their brows as they tended the plants, and smells of loam, flowers, and manure variably reached his nose. "A garden?" he asked.

Grace, to his surprise, was the one who nodded. "We try to grow our own food," she said.

The morphs working in the garden lifted their heads as they approached. Most stared for a moment, then returned to their tasks. One, with well-groomed hair and a staff strapped to his back, looked from Mark to Grace; only when she nodded at him did he turn back to his work. _Another healer. Grace's subordinate?_

Mark returned his attention to the plants. There was a variety of fruits and vegetables, all common to the region. "There's not enough here to feed a group as large as yours," he observed

"Which is why Ellain was going into town the other day," Grace replied. "We make regular trips for supplies we can't grow or hunt ourselves."

"And Cassandra makes such trips, too?"

Grace fell silent, turning away.

"Sorry," Mark muttered. "That is how I met her, though." _And how I got myself imprisoned here in the first place._

"Cassandra likes to do things herself," Denning said. "Often times, she'll give one of us a task to perform, then take it over before we're even halfway done."

Grace shot him a glare. "She's a capable leader."

"Of course," he answered, withering under her eyes. "We wouldn't be here without her."

Grace seemed to relax somewhat, and as Mark studied her face, he believed she was almost smiling.

"Although not everything is for eating," Denning said, reaching for a rosebush positioned at one corner of the garden. He gently plucked one of the roses by the stem. "Just because our bodies lack color doesn't mean we don't want it in our—ouch!"

Mark jumped at his cry of pain, but Denning just jerked his hand back from the rosebush; the flower he'd picked fell to the ground, a drop of blood shining on one of its thorns. "Damn," Denning muttered, rubbing his thumb. "I always forget about those things."

Mark picked up the fallen rose, studying the blood as it dried. They were constructed of stolen lifeforce, and yet, morphs bled just as red as humans. "Are you all right?" he asked Denning.

"Let me see." Grace unslung her staff and reached for his hand.

Denning pulled away. "It's fine. I just—"

"Let me see," she repeated, more sternly this time. Denning relented, and she took his left hand in both of hers. She peeled off the fingerless gloves in order to better examine the wound—just a prick, really. Denning's hands were covered in calluses from the use of his bow, and beneath the gloves, the only adornment was a small gold band on his third finger.

A band that was an exact match for the one Grace wore on the same finger.

Both of them suddenly turned to him, concern on their faces, and he realized he'd gasped aloud. "You two are _married?"_ he choked.

Grace flushed, and turned away; Denning broke out with a hearty laugh. "Once again, his tactical genius on display!" Denning put an arm around the healer—his wife. "Only took him two weeks to figure that one out."

Grace looked at him, smiling mildly. "Does this mean we can finally kiss in front of him?"

Denning smiled, and pressed his lips gently to hers. It was not a passionate kiss, burning with repressed desire, but Mark could still feel the attraction coming off the pair in waves. He turned away, trying to distract himself from his discomfort—not a difficult thing to do, given the implications of what he'd just seen. _So not only are these morphs capable of emotion, but they actually feel love? Or is this truly love as we know it? Was theirs simply a marriage of convenience? Some kind of strange carry-over from their purposes? Or has Cassandra's freeing of their mind enabled them to actually fall in love?_

That was a question for the ages. Human love barely made any sense; what was he supposed to think of romantic attraction between morphs?

"It's sweet, isn't it?" came a soft voice next to his ear. Mark jerked, and turned to find a woman smiling at him. She was wearing a dress—a different one than their previous meeting, in a cut he recognized as similar to what Etrurian ladies might wear.

"Ellain," he said, bowing in what he hoped was a show of respect. "I'm sorry, I didn't hear you approach."

"You do seem distracted." She nodded toward the morph couple, who had parted and were now watching the two of them. "They've been married for two years now, yet they still kiss like shy children."

Both of them flushed at her comment, but Mark barely noticed their embarrassment. "Two _years?_ "

Denning nodded. "I told you how she saved my life," he said. "After that, I found myself giving her small gifts whenever I could, while she made excuses to spend time with me. It took three years—"

"And a little outside guidance," Ellain added with a smirk.

"—for us to realize we were falling in love," Denning finished. "After that, marriage seemed the logical choice."

"Cassandra performed the ceremony," Grace added. "So it's not binding in the eyes of Saint Elimine. But…" she smiled shyly at her husband. "It's been an enjoyable experience."

Again, Mark felt the need to turn away from the softness in their golden eyes. Ellain was smiling at him again. "It's nice to have someone, isn't it?" she said quietly. He was suddenly aware that her hand was gently touching his arm.

"I, ah… couldn't say," he managed. He could now feel every tensed muscle in his body, every sweating pore, every beat of his heart. When had she gotten so _close?_

"Is that for me?" She gently took the rose from his hands; he'd forgotten he was holding it. "Sir Mark, you are too kind."

"Oh, no," he said, then winced. "I mean… I'm not 'sir' anything, and it…"

He trailed off as she lifted the flower to her nose, her eyes drifting shut and her face relaxing as she inhaled its scent. Her eyes reopened slowly, focusing on his face. "I never got to properly thank you for saving my life the other day."

He swallowed. "That's not necessary—I mean, you weren't in any real danger, and—"

She put a finger to his lips. "Hush now. If your minders will allow it, you should come by my room later. I'm sure they wouldn't object to leaving you in my care for a few hours."

"Ellain…" Grace's voice had a note of warning in it. Mark's eyes flicked to the side long enough to see the couple watching them. The love in their expressions had morphed into concern. His heart sped up even further, something he hadn't thought possible. Was he in danger? Was Ellain?

"I'm an excellent cook," Ellain went on. "I know Cassandra has been feeding you, but I doubt you've tasted anything like what I have to offer. And I can't think of a better way to show you my gratitude." She leaned a little closer, laying one hand on his chest. "Can you?"

"Ellain!"

They both started, as did Grace and Denning, and all four turned to the source of the voice. Cassandra was standing across the garden, weight on one foot and arms crossed. Beneath a furrowed brow, her eyes probed Ellain questioningly. The woman blinked under her leader's scrutiny, blinked a few times, and looked around slowly, as if drunk—or just waking from a dream. She looked at Mark, then at the rose in her hand, and gasped softly. "Oh," she breathed, "was I…?"

"It's all right," Grace said quickly; she closed the distance between them in a heartbeat and took Ellain's arm. "You needn't worry."

"I'm not worried," Ellain said with a smile, though she seemed very unsteady on her feet. She looked to Mark again, taking a step back and clearing her throat. "Sir Mark, I must apologize for my impropriety just now. Old habits and all that."

Mark was more focused on getting his heart rate under control than anything. He swallowed loudly and looked around at the other morphs.

"You're confused," Ellain surmised, smiling wryly. "Allow me to explain."

Cassandra lifted a hand as she approached. "You don't owe the human anything, Ellain," she stated matter-of-factly.

Ellain inclined her head to her leader before going on. "You met Sonia, yes?"

Mark winced. Grace had asked him that same question the first day he was here. "I wouldn't say we 'met.' The closest I ever got to her was the far end of a battlefield."

She nodded. "She was powerful, I'll grant you that. But, unlike most morphs, she was not made with combat in mind."

"That's right," Mark said. "She had the purpose of seducing and manipulating Brendan Reed." He blinked. "Wait. Does that mean…?"

She lowered her eyes, and there was no happiness in her smile. "I was his backup seductress. Held in reserve in case he needed someone else manipulated like Reed. He never did find a use for me—or, if he did, he died before putting me to it." She shook her head. "Cassandra has freed my mind, but the skills Nergal forced into me—and the impulses that came with them—remain. When I see a human man, my first thought is to bend him to my will. You, I fear, are no exception."

His bodily functions had mostly returned to normal. He bowed his head to her. "I'm sorry to have perturbed you."

She curtsied in turn. "And I you. I _would_ be happy to host you for dinner sometime"—she briefly met Cassandra's gaze—"when your escorts would be able to join us. I wouldn't want anyone thinking your virtue was at risk," she added with a smirk.

He felt the flush rising in his cheeks, and tried to ignore it.

Ellain nodded to the group and turned, walking away with the elegant sweep of a noblewoman. Cassandra looked at Mark with a smirk. "Sorry to intervene," she said in a sardonic tone, "but as much as I enjoyed watching you squirm, I didn't think it was a good idea to let Ellain make a fool of herself."

Mark wet his lips with his tongue, ignoring the jibe. "I thought you removed everything Nergal put in your minds?"

"Of course not," she sneered. "Removing _everything_ would be like erasing the contents of your mind; all that would be left was an empty shell. What I did was erase the parts that made us Nergal's slaves—but I had to keep the parts that made us who we were, be that protector, healer, or temptress."

Mark nodded, mind working in several different directions at once.

"Are you finished with your walk?" she asked, looking around at the three of them.

Grace eyed Cassandra a moment, and sighed. "I suppose that's enough for today, yes. We'll see how his health improves with regular exercise."

"All right." Cassandra motioned to them. "Denning, Gavin needs your help at the gate. I'll accompany Mark and Grace back to his room."

Denning tilted his head. "I thought you couldn't afford to take time away from—"

"I can't," she said swiftly. "But I'm making time anyway. Get moving."

Denning pursed his lips, and nodded at Grace before slipping away.

The male with the staff approached. Mark realized, with an uneasy lurch, that he'd been watching them the whole time. "Cassandra," he said in a soft, deep voice. "I can accompany you."

"That's not necessary, Peleus," Cassandra said, barely sparing him a glance. "We can handle this."

His gaze slipped to Grace. "If you wish to remain with Denning—"

"It's all right," Grace said. She didn't smile, yet her expression seemed to reassure him. "Thank you for offering."

Peleus's face remained impassive as he nodded, and returned to the row he'd been tilling. Cassandra turned as well, moving across the garden in powerful strides and leaving Grace and Mark hurrying to catch up.

"So," Mark whispered to Grace as they trailed behind her, "if you're the healer, and Ellain's the temptress, does that make Cassandra the protector?"

Grace shot him a surprised look before returning her eyes forward. "You've been here almost two weeks now," she whispered back. "What do you think?"

They reached his building and made their way up the stairs. Cassandra opened his room, dismissing Grace with one hand and retrieving her key with the other. He stepped inside, but when he didn't immediately hear the door close behind him, he turned to find Cassandra leaning against the doorframe, scrutinizing him with crossed arms. "Are you going to ask your question?"

He blinked. "What?"

"You've been thinking about something since we started up the stairs," Cassandra answered.

"How—"

"You paused mid-step, and you keep glancing at me when you think I'm not looking. You want to ask me something, but don't quite have the courage to do so." She lifted her chin. "Are you going to or not?"

The sweat returned. "It's nothing important," he said, a little too quickly. "It's just what you said about Ellain… she's not a combat morph, but she can fight?"

"Of course," Cassandra said. "We all can."

"So, if a non-combat morph knows how to fight, does a combat morph know how to… er…"

Cassandra watched him for a moment, understanding dawning behind her eyes. "You're asking," she said, "if I know how to seduce a man the way she does?"

Mark quickly shook his head. "What? No! I mean—not you specifically, I was just wondering—"

She was suddenly right in front of him, her finger pressed against his lips just as Ellain's had been minutes before. She spoke again—had her voice suddenly gotten deeper? "You're asking if I know how to please a man? How to bring him to his knees?" She was leaning closer, and her breath was hot on his neck. "How to make him moan? How to make him"—she moved her mouth right next to his ear—" _scream?"_

She was whispering now, and as close as she was, he could barely hear her over his own heartbeat. His entire body had gone rigid, his mouth was no longer working, and he was pretty sure his eyes were wide enough to be used for serving dinner.

A light shove, and he toppled over back onto his bed. He looked up to see Cassandra, one hand on her hips, smirking down at him. "Does that answer your question?" she asked, before spinning and striding out of the room. The door slammed, and the lock clicked.

It was five solid minutes before Mark trusted his legs to carry his weight again.

_While the morphs are doing their best to make the fort appear abandoned, and be self-sufficient within its walls, it's apparent that their facilities can't provide enough for their entire population. Hence the need for regular supply runs. I have no doubt that you have Sanders monitoring these trips, but from what I've seen so far, there's nothing to fear from them. I've asked after the possibility of farming outside the fort walls, but they seem uncomfortable with the idea. Probably because such a farm and the farmers who run it would be exposed to bandits—and to Ostia._

"Are you all right?" Eliwood whispered.

Lyn shook her head. "Mark and I have been friends for six years, Eliwood," she replied. Her green hair, back in its usual ponytail, seemed limp and lifeless as it hung over her chair, and her teal eyes were deep with sorrow. "We've faced everything together, from bandits to warlords to dragons to morphs—and yet, when he needed me, I wasn't there." Her eyes drifted shut. "First grandfather, and now..."

Eliwood winced in sympathy. It had been mere weeks since Lord Hausen's passing. Lyn had been getting ready to abdicate Caelin when news of Mark's capture had arrived. "You can't blame yourself," he said softly.

She finally met his gaze, and he was shocked by the steel in her eyes. "I don't."

Eliwood looked away, glancing around at the rest of the table. He and Lyn had arrived just days before, each bringing a small entourage. They, along with Hector's group of knights and scholars, made up the war council that would hopefully never have to counsel a war. He'd heard that Lyn had arranged for Sain to take stewardship of Caelin temporarily, while Florina's husband headed up the remaining knights. Eliwood himself had left Pherae in the care of his wife; he was reluctant to leave her, especially with newborn Roy running about the castle, but she'd practically shoved him out the door when she heard Mark was in danger.

Hector cleared his throat, drawing their attention back to the head of the table. "All right," he said, setting down the letter he'd been reading. "The messenger tells me that Mark appears to still be in good health—certainly better than he was last week, now that they're letting him outside again."

"I still think you should have sent me," Matthew said, arms crossed. "It's better for Mark to know—"

Lucius touched the thief's arm. "He knows you care," he said. "You needn't fear that."

"And I need you here," Hector said. "We need information, and we need to keep this quiet. That's your job, and you're a damn sight better at it than some. Doing it is the best way you can help Mark."

The spy lowered his eyes, and Eliwood could almost believe he was sulking. "Yes, my lord."

"Speaking of which," Canas said, leaning forward, "how is the search for Renault going?"

Eliwood lifted an eyebrow, but Hector showed no sign of being put off by the scholar speaking out of turn. Matthew shook his head. "No word. We checked his old residence on Valor—which wasn't easy, I might add; I fear we owe Fargus and his crew a sizeable sum. In any case, there was no sign of the bishop, and no indication of where he'd gone. We'll keep looking, but for now, we'll have to go forward without him."

Eliwood noticed Lucius's gaze shift at the news. From where he was sitting, he could just see Serra take the monk's hand under the table.

"Wonderful," Hector growled. "The only thing we know for certain is how little we know." He picked up the letter, looked over it, and tossed it back onto the table. "And this—what am I supposed to make of this? Is Mark encouraging me to attack? Is he telling me I should stay my hand? Or are the morphs putting words in his mouth?"

Eliwood sat up. "Everyone at this table knows Mark," he said. "Many of us would even call him a friend." He took in the approving nods of the others, and went on. "And, while he may make his living from war, he's always been one to seek peace. Even if his life wasn't at stake, Hector, I don't think he'd ever advocate attacking the morphs."

"Not unless there was no other way," Lyn added. Eliwood looked over at her, but she did not meet his gaze.

Hector started running his fingers through his beard. "An enemy force at our doorstep," he muttered. "Except I don't truly know whether they're enemies or not."

"Mark seems to trust them," Eliwood pointed out.

"But can we trust Mark?"

Everyone turned to the source of the gruff voice. Raven sat back from the table, arms crossed and a familiar scowl across his face. The man's red hair was just a few shades darker than Eliwood's own, and the mercenary's stocky build made Eliwood feel almost slender by comparison. Eliwood had never been sure how to feel about Raven, even after learning he was the heir to the defunct House Cornwell. On the one hand, he always wanted to believe the best in people. On the other hand, Raven had spent a long time wanting to kill Eliwood's best friend, and at least some of that animosity lingered.

Hector's face tightened as he regarded Raven. "Explain."

Raven met his eyes without flinching. Eliwood almost had to look away from the intensity of their gazes. "Remember what we discussed last week, my lord," he said, the final two words not quite mocking. "And Mark himself mentions the temptress in his letter. What if the morphs are trying to bring him over to their side?"

"That's not going to happen," Lyn said, rising partially from her seat. "Mark's loyalty isn't just to Ostia, it's to all of us. We went through the crucible together. I know better than anyone that he's never going to forget that."

Cold eyes fixed on her. "When was the last time you actually spoke to him, my lady?"

Lyn seethed—but no answer came.

"All right," Hector growled. "That's enough. Mark wasn't any happier about being taken hostage than we were. He's just doing his damnedest to survive."

"My lord," Matthew said softly.

Hector turned to him with blazing eyes. "Not now."

"I've seen captives before who sympathize with their captors," Matthew went on, ignoring his lord's command. "They—"

"I said not now!"

"It's like you said: he's trying to survive. Part of that may be convincing himself that the morphs are—"

"Matthew!"

Eliwood almost jumped. He was Hector's best friend, and in many ways, still thought of him as the boy he'd been when they first met. At moments like these, however, he was reminded that the boy had become a man—and a very large, very loud one, at that. Hector was standing now, his fingers almost burrowing into the wood of the table as he glared at his spymaster. Matthew fell silent; he did not meet his lord's gaze, but he did not flinch away from it, a feat that would have been nigh impossible for most men.

"We're here for two reasons," Hector growled, turning his gaze from Matthew and looking around the entire table. "One—a group of morphs, creations of Nergal that we had thought wiped out, has been discovered alive and well in Lycia. Two—this group has taken Mark, our tactician, confidante, and friend, hostage. He is the reason we cannot move against them—and yet, he is the reason we must. If we start assuming the worst of him, then everything we know falls apart." His fingers curled into a fist, and he brought it down hard on the table. "I need answers, not accusations. If you don't have any, go find some."

He straightened, looking around the table one last time. Eliwood felt a surge of pride in his friend; here, truly, was the leader Lycia needed. "That is all," Hector rumbled.


	6. Chapter 6

Denning frowned as Mark stepped out of the front door. “You look awful. Are you not well?”

Mark winced; a part of him had been hoping to avoid this conversation. “Not exactly,” he began as he started down the street. “I haven’t been getting a lot of sleep lately. I…” He shuffled his feet. “I didn’t realize that your room was right next to mine.”

Denning raised an eyebrow. “I thought you knew as much. I did mention this was our building when I first suggested keeping you here, did I not?”

“You did,” Mark admitted. “But I didn’t know that ‘our’ meant ‘mine and Grace’s’ at the time. And even then, I…” He rubbed his forehead. “I didn’t realize that your room was… _right…_ next to mine.”

Denning frowned. “Why would that matter?”

“You know what, never mind,” Mark said quickly, shaking his head. He lifted his head to the clouds, painted brilliant reds by the rising sun. “I don’t really want to talk about—”

“Wait,” Denning said, golden eyes shining with sudden understanding. “Are you referring to the increased amount of sex we’ve been having?”

Mark grimaced. “Yes. That’s… exactly what I didn’t want to talk about.”

Denning smiled at the man, seemingly oblivious to his discomfort. “I apologize. We did not mean to wake you, but after your encounter with Ellain last week—”

“Do we have to call it an ‘encounter?’” Mark mumbled.

“—and her comments on how we kissed, Grace started thinking we might expand our repertoire of—”

“Oh, hey, look, is that Gavin?” Mark said, pointing down the street. “I haven’t seen him in days. Gavin!” he called. “Over here!”

The man he’d indicated was indeed Gavin, and was crossing the way some thirty paces ahead of them. He looked over long enough to scowl at Mark, and then shuffled around a corner. Denning glanced after him, then back to Mark, his smile softening. “I’m making you uncomfortable,” he said. “I apologize; I did not realize.”

“It’s all right,” Mark said, feeling embarrassed for having been so embarrassed. “I’m just not used to such frank discussion of such… _intimate_ topics.”

“I understand.” Denning shrugged. “Human social morays still often elude me. But, considering I only knew fourteen words when we first met, I’d say I’ve improved a lot.”

Mark couldn’t help but laugh at that. “I’d say so.”

Mark turned to his other guard. Denning’s companion today was Peleus, whom he’d met in the garden a week before. Peleus was, as Mark had inferred, one of the healers working under Grace. He was tall, with short hair he kept well-combed; he carried a tome, though not quite as intimidating as the one Grace used. Mark offered him a smile, and got a simple nod in response. Peleus didn’t show an interest in the tactician the way Denning, Grace, and Ellain had; on the other hand, he didn’t reject him offhand like Gavin and many others. He was mostly indifferent—which, given the scorn Mark still got from some of the morphs on these daily walks, was almost refreshing.

They started down the road. It was overcast, with thick clouds rolling toward them from the Etrurian mountains. Mark wondered if they’d get some rain; he’d heard the garden workers muttering about the dryness.

“Cassandra wished me to remind you of how busy she is,” Denning said as they entered another building and started up the stairs. “She doesn’t have much time to meet with you, so keep it brief.”

“She does like it brief, doesn’t she?” Mark sighed. An innuendo flashed into his head, and he quickly chased it away. Clearly, he was still feeling Ellain’s influence.

Denning smirked, stopping in front of a door. “It comes from never having enough time. If your idea works, that might change.” He opened the door and motioned Mark inside.

The first thing Mark noticed about Cassandra’s room was that it was no bigger or more luxurious than his. He’d have expected the leader of a community to at least have a nice home, but Cassandra’s quarters were simple and austere. It fit with what he knew of her, though; Cassandra was someone who put the needs of her people first, to the point of neglecting her own needs. At least she had a rug on the floor. And, to his envy, a window.

She looked up from the reports she was reading and frowned at him. “You don’t look so well,” she said.

He slid into the seat across the desk from her. Peleus and Denning took up their positions behind him. “I didn’t sleep very well.”

She lifted an eyebrow. “Do our accommodations not meet your standards?”

“The room is fine,” Mark said. “Well, actually… I wouldn’t mind being moved to another one. I know it wouldn’t be any nicer than this one, but…” He looked back at Denning, and grimaced. “Never mind.”

Denning looked at the ground, chuckling softly. Cassandra cast a confused look at both of them before shaking it from her face. “Well, what did you want to talk about?”

Mark mustered the best smile he could, and spread his hands. “I’m here to offer my services.”

She set down the report and slowly leaned back in her chair. “I don’t need a tactician.”

“Of course not,” he agreed. “But you know what you do need?”

“What?”

“A tactician.”

She pinched the bridge of her nose. “Will you two please get him out of here?”

Peleus started forward, but Denning lay a hand on his arm. “Let me explain,” Mark said quickly. “Who’s in charge of organizing supply runs?”

“I am.”

“And who’s in charge of scheduling the guard shifts?”

She peered at him uncertainly. “I am.”

“And who’s in charge of planning the garden?”

“I am, mostly.”

He sat back as well. “Seeing a pattern?”

“Only one of leadership.”

“Yes, leadership. Good leadership, too, for a good leader won’t ask something of her people that she isn’t prepared to do herself.” He raised a finger. “But a _great_ leader knows who to assign each task.”

She shook her head. “What are you babbling about?”

“I’m babbling about you, Cassandra.” He eyed her a moment. “May I be blunt?”

“I would certainly never accuse you of being sharp,” she said with a smirk.

He paused, annoyed less with the insult and more with how funny he found it. “I’ve seen it time and again in the last three weeks, even when I was cooped up in my room,” he began. “You take every burden on yourself—an admirable trait, but it leaves you with a thousand tasks to accomplish, and it leaves everyone else depending on you to get them all done.” He waved his hand toward the window. “You’d be far better off if you got your people organized. Put them in charge of things so you don’t have to worry about them. Then you’d spend less time on the minutiae of running this fort, and more time making sure the whole thing is running smoothly.”

She frowned, a little deeper than he’d have liked. He searched her eyes, hoping she was at least considering what he was saying. “And where do you come in?” she asked.

He smiled. “For most of my adult life, I’ve been a tactician serving at the side of great leaders. They were the ones who knew where to go and what to do. But I was the one who knew the army—who knew each unit’s strengths and weaknesses, and how to make the most of them. I can do the exact same thing here.”

She lifted a skeptical eyebrow. “From battlefields to cornfields?”

“We are not growing any corn,” Peleus called. It was the first time he’d spoken all day.

“I was—” Cassandra waved Peleus to silence, glaring.

Mark straightened his back. “Whether in war or peace, there are tasks to accomplish, and people to perform those tasks. My skill is in matching the one to the other.” He leaned forward. “A show of good faith. Put Moriel in charge of the next supply run. You won’t be disappointed.”

Cassandra started. “Moriel?”

“Moriel.” Mark had barely met the girl, but his brief glimpses of her at work had been enough to convince him that this was the right call.

“Moriel barely speaks to anyone. She spends more time flying patrols than she does helping out in the fort. After all”—she grimaced—“that’s the job she was designed for.”

“And, thanks to you, she now has the capacity to do so much more.”

Cassandra frowned, looking him over. Mark had to fight not to shrink under the intensity of her gaze. She was as intimidating as ever—and worse, he hadn’t quite been able to purge the memory of her breath on his ear from the week before. She must have realized this, for a smile flickered over her face momentarily, and he tried not to grimace.

“No,” she said at last—though the amount of time it took her to say so was encouraging. “You’re a hostage, not a butler, and we’ve gotten along fine without you for five years. We will handle our own affairs; you just worry about your letters and your walks.” She looked back down at the mess of papers on her desk and waved him off. “Speaking of which, you might as well stretch your legs on your way back to your room. You may go.”

There was no room for argument, and Mark rose in silence, crossing over to Denning and listening to the morph’s quiet footsteps fall in behind his own as they exited the room. “Sorry,” Denning sighed as they started down the stairs. “I’d hoped she’d be more receptive, but this wasn’t unexpected.”

“It wasn’t,” Mark agreed. He pushed open the door to the street, enjoying the cool breeze as he held it open for the others. “But I’m not giving up just yet. We’ve planted an idea in her head; given time to grow, she may yet see its virtue.”

“Or she’ll just think you’re trying to infiltrate the chain of command and weaken us for an Ostian attack,” Denning pointed out.

Mark grimaced. “Or that.” He paused, and looked up at the other morph. “What do you think, Peleus?”

The man blinked. “What? Me?”

“Yeah. The idea I just proposed to Cassandra, what do you think of it?”

Peleus frowned, fingering his tome. “I’m not certain I should be speaking to you of this,” he said. “I am here merely to guard you, after all, as a favor to Grace.”

“Then answer his question,” Denning said lightly. “As a favor to Grace.”

Peleus frowned as he finally met Mark’s gaze. “Cassandra… has been known to make mistakes.”

“So you think it’s a good idea?”

Peleus studied him a moment, then turned away. “We should be going.”

Mark sighed. _Well. I suppose that’s something._

“Put Moriel in charge of the next supply run,” Cassandra grumbled as she shoved open the door to her building. “It’s absurd. Who does he think he is, telling me how to run my fort?”

 _At least I managed to make him squirm again._ She smiled to herself as she remembered the look on his face the last time she’d come to his room. She wished she could get a painting of that expression.

“Cassandra?” Gavin had been leaning against the wall of the building, waiting for her; now he pushed himself upright, looking her over in concern. “What did you say?”

“Never mind.” She shook her head, trying to clear the image of Mark’s face. No sense in letting the human occupy her thoughts when she had work to do. “What’s first today?”

Gavin fell in beside her, still studying her dubiously. “Ronic wants to discuss rebuilding the northwest corner.”

“What? He wants to put holes in our walls while the Ostians are watching our every move?”

“The holes are already there. The corner is crumbling, and without it, the surrounding walls will start to go too. Better to repair it now before it causes more damage.”

She grimaced. “And what are we to do about it?”

Gavin shrugged, looking abashed. “I honestly have no idea. A few morphs were given engineering knowledge to keep their fortresses in repair, but…”

She looked to the sky. “But none of them were among those we saved,” she said softly.

He looked at her a moment, opened his mouth to speak. She waved him to silence. “It’s all right, Gavin,” she said. “I take pride in my victories and responsibility for my failures. Let’s go see Ronic. I’ll assess the damage myself.”

Even as they started walking, her words reminded her of Mark’s from earlier. She frowned, trying to push them away. Of course she took on everything herself; how else could she make sure everyone else was being taken care of? And it wasn’t as if she couldn’t handle it all.

“Cassandra?”

She started at the sound of Gavin’s voice, and looked up to see Ronic standing a few feet away. She hadn’t even realized they were approaching the northwest corner, and had nearly walked into the guard captain. She cursed Mark under her breath; that human was so damn distracting, and she had no idea why.

“Yes, yes,” she said, waving Gavin down as she looked up at Ronic. “I see. Now, show me the—”

“Cassandra?” Ellain glided to her side. “Might I borrow you a moment?”

Cassandra didn’t have a chance to answer before Ellain took her arm in a too-strong grip and began pulling her away, Ronic looking aghast and Gavin following uncertainly. His eyes darted from one woman to the other, indecision churning in his eyes.

“Ellain!” Cassandra tried to push the other woman away without hurting her. Sadly, Ellain was nearly as strong and skilled as she was, and managed to keep her grip. “What are you doing? I’m busy!”

“I can see that,” Ellain said smoothly, “but I’ve been trying to see you for days now, and this might be my only chance.” She stopped about thirty paces from the crumbling corner. “Some of the humans in town have begun to notice the uniformity of our coloration. I fear they might grow suspicious.”

That _was_ bad news—not that Cassandra appreciated her attention being demanded like that. “And what do you suggest?” she asked with not a little disdain. “Paint our skin and dye our hair?”

“Actually,” Ellain said, not meeting her gaze, “I was thinking we should hire humans to help us.”

“You can’t be serious!” To both of their surprise, it was Gavin who spoke. His hand was tight on the hilt of his blade as he looked at Ellain with worried brows. “You want to bring more humans here? Isn’t one enough?”

“Not here, necessarily.” Ellain looked away from his eyes. “But if we got them to run errands for us in town, and then deliver the supplies to us somewhere in-between—”

“Then the hirelings would grow just as suspicious as you fear the locals will,” Cassandra growled. “Worse, Ostian spies would see them working for us, and find a way to use it against us.” She shook her head. “Absolutely not.”

Ellain’s frown held none of its usual pout. “Then what are we to do?”

“I don’t know!” Cassandra snapped. She started back toward the wall. “Just keep doing the supply runs as you have been for now. If and when the humans grow more suspicious, we’ll figure something out.”

Ellain dogged at her heels, but Cassandra ignored her nattering. She’d almost made it back to the northwest corner when a shriek split the air. Her blade was out in an instant, as was Gavin’s, and the two of them sprinted through the streets of the fort toward the sound, leaving a baffled Ellain and irate Ronic in their wake.

They rounded a corner—and almost ran into a rearing pegasus. Cassandra cried out and leaped back, motioning to Gavin to do the same. Hooves waved in the air and powerful wings swept forward, sending a buffeting wind their way. There was a young woman—a morph—nearby, sprawled on the ground, clutching a lance with one arm and her left leg with the other. Cassandra gripped her blade, one eye on the pegasus, the other scanning the area for its rider; was this an invasion, or—

“Easy!” came a high-pitched shout. “Easy, boy!” A morph materialized at the beast’s side; she was slight of frame, yet she gripped the reins firmly, and reached for its snout—much the way Mark had with the horse last month. “Easy now,” she said, voice lower now. “That’s it.”

Cassandra blinked, and looked around again. The girl holding the reins was Moriel—and the pegasus was hers. She recognized it, now that her heart wasn’t racing with the thrill of battle. The girl on the ground was—she scrunched her eyes shut as she tried to remember—Deichtine, one of their guardsmen. She gingerly rubbed her leg, which was already starting to turn blue. All morphs possessed the same coloration, but these two, with their similar builds and short, messy hair, could have been sisters.

Cassandra slowly returned her blade to its sheath as Gavin went over to check on Deichtine. “What happened?” she asked, eyes boring into Moriel.

The girl didn’t squirm under her gaze; she was too busy glaring at Deichtine. “ _Some_ one thought it would be a good idea to take Percy for a flight without practicing at all beforehand,” she said.

“I did too practice!” Deichtine shot back as Gavin helped her up. “I—ow!” She doubled over, clutching her leg again. “I went for a training ride with you yesterday, remember? I didn’t think the ruddy beast would throw me!”

Moriel’s eyes widened, and she placed her hands on the pegasus’s ears. He immediately began trying to wriggle away. “Don’t talk about him like that! He’s a perfectly lovely pegasus, and he’s the sweetest creature you’ll ever meet!”

“Then why did he—”

“He didn’t ‘throw you,’ you fell!” Moriel cut her off. “One practice ride doesn’t qualify you to go flying alone, you know. You forgot to buckle the saddle correctly!” She held up a dangling leather strap as if to prove her point.

Cassandra began rubbing her temples. Now that the immediate danger had passed, listening to them squabble was giving her a headache. “Deichtine, why are you even trying to ride Moriel’s pegasus?”

“Percy,” Moreil insisted.

“Whatever.”

Deichtine stared at her. “You told me to.”

“I—” Cassandra faltered. “What?”

“You said you wanted to strengthen patrols around the fort now that the Ostians are watching us, including the aerial ones.” Deichtine eyed her uncertainly as she spoke, running a hand through her short-cropped hair. “You said, until we could procure a mount for me, I should practice on Moriel’s.”

Cassandra looked around at them blankly. “I did?”

“You, uh, did, actually,” Gavin muttered, hoisting Deichtine further up onto his shoulder. “About a week ago? Right after the Ostian messenger picked up Mark’s last letter?”

Cassandra looked at each of the three in turn, and shook her head. “All right,” she muttered. “All right. Deichtine, keep practicing, but follow Moriel’s instructions exactly. She’s been riding that—” She stopped, glancing at Moriel. “She’s been riding _Percy_ since before we came here, so if she says you aren’t ready, you aren’t ready.”

Deichtine frowned, but nodded.

Cassandra let out a breath. “All right. Go find Grace, and have her take a look at that leg.”

“Uh.” Gavin gave her an odd look. “Cassandra?”

“Hold on,” she said. She looked over at Moriel. “If Percy’s injured, you can have Grace look at him as well, though I doubt she’d be—”

“Cassandra,” Gavin interrupted, “Grace is ill.”

“She—” For the second time in as many minutes, she found herself stumbling on her words. “What?”

“Denning told you this morning, remember?” he went on. “Before your meeting with the human?” All three of them were looking at her like she’d grown a second head. “Grace woke up feeling nauseous this morning. She’s going to spend the day resting.”

Cassandra turned away, shaking her head. Denning _had_ told her that—it was why Peleus had filled in for her as Mark’s escort—but she’d been so busy, it had barely registered in her mind. “Fine. Go see one of the other healers, get your leg fixed, and don’t let this happen again.” She turned and swept away before any of them could say anything else.

She realized she was stomping her feet, but didn’t stop. It felt good to vent a little frustration on the ground. Why did everyone come running to her with their problems? Or—no. This time, it had been she who ran _to_ the problem. And she _had_ told Ellain to check with her when planning supply runs, and they _did_ need to increase their flying patrols with the Ostian garrison keeping a close watch on them. But couldn’t Ellain and Moriel take care of things on their own?

_Maybe they could—if you’d let them._

She halted. Had that been her voice, or Mark’s?

“Cassandra?”

She jumped a good three feet in the air and let out a most undignified yelp. She spun around—“Denning? What are you doing, sneaking up on me like that?!”

He stepped back. “I—didn’t intend to sneak up on anyone. I just wanted to see if you were all right.”

“Of course I’m all right!” she snapped. “Why wouldn’t I be all right?”

“I couldn’t guess.” She wasn’t sure whether or not she was imagining the sarcasm in his voice. “Where’s Gavin? I thought he was assisting you today.”

She started back down the street. “Well, now he’s assisting Deichtine, who managed to get herself injured while trying to hijack Moriel’s pegasus.” She looked over at him. “Where’s your hound?”

“Mark’s in his room,” Denning said coolly. “He’s locked in, and there are guards posted, before you ask.”

“I wasn’t going to—” She stopped; it would have been a lie, and they both knew it. “Is Grace feeling any better?”

“She is,” Denning said, inclining his head. “Though I certainly think she should still rest. The nausea mostly passed by the late morning, but she still seems pale—well, paler than we usually are, at any rate.” He smiled, though she didn’t see the humor.

“Well, make sure she gets enough to eat and drink,” Cassandra sighed. She looked up. “That reminds me—you’ll need to organize another hunting expedition soon.”

“I know,” he said, shaking his head. “But we’re going to need more arrows to do that.”

She stopped, staring at him. “I thought they were going to get more on the last supply run?”

“So did I,” he said with a shrug.

She pursed her lips, then turned forward. “Ellain!” she roared.

“Yes?”

At least Cassandra managed not to yelp this time. _How do people manage to keep popping out of thin air today?_ She turned to the temptress, who was busy giving Denning a knowing smile. “Why didn’t you buy any arrows while you were in town?” Cassandra snapped.

Ellain took her eyes from Denning long enough to frown at her. “You didn’t ask for any.”

“Well, of course _I_ didn’t. I’m no archer.” She motioned to Denning. “But they need them to go hunting, and—”

“And the last time I bought something that somebody else requested, you took both of us to task for going over your head.” Ellain was standing straight, hands folded in front of her, eyeing her leader with a cool disregard. “Or did I misunderstand?”

Cassandra seethed—mostly because she knew Ellain was right. “All right,” she said slowly. “Maybe I shouldn’t insist on taking care of supply requests myself. But—”

The air split with a noisy crash; the entire fort seemed to shake, and the roar echoed through the buildings even as they all covered their ears. “What the hell was that?!” Cassandra shouted.

There was sound of a man clearing his throat behind her. “That,” Ronic said, “was the northwest corner collapsing.”

A wave of dust rolled through the streets moments later. Cassandra stared at it as if it were an attacking army. Her shoulders lifted and fell with a deep breath; the others around her exchanged concerned glances between eyeing her warily.

At last, without turning her head, she pointed first to Ronic: “You go assess the damage.” Then to Denning: “You assemble our strongest morphs for a repair crew.” And finally, to Ellain: “And you, come with me.”

“Me?” Moriel squeaked, almost dropping the brush she’d been using on Percy.

“Her?” Ellain cried, almost releasing the skirts she was carefully holding off the floor of the stable.

“Yes, you, and yes, her,” Cassandra growled. “I’m putting Moriel in charge of the next supply run.”

“But…” Moriel set down the brush; the poor girl looked as though she’d just been sentenced to death. “Why?”

“Because this damn place is coming apart around me, and I’m holding the whole thing together with twine and good intentions!” Cassandra managed to keep her voice just below a shout—only just. “And if that keeps up, it won’t matter whether or not the Ostians attack, because we’ll go to pieces all on our own. And I’m willing to try anything— _anything_ —to keep that from happening.” She took a breath. “Even taking advice from a human.”

Both the other woman stared at her, confusion writ large on their faces. She waved a hand at them. “Well, what are you waiting for? Get planning.”

Ellain’s eyes narrowed. “May I remind you that we _just_ made a supply run?”

A horse in the stall next to her _whuffed_ loudly. Ellain flinched back, staring at the beast.

“We did, and”—Cassandra grimaced—“thanks to me, we don’t have enough arrows for the hunt. So you might as well see if there’s anything else we’ve forgotten, and get it before we all starve to death.” She forced herself to meet Ellain’s gaze. “You aren’t being punished, I’ll have you know. This is just an experiment—for now.”

Moriel looked over at Ellain with pleading eyes, nervously touching the feather-shaped pin she kept in her hair. “Can you help me? Please? I’m no good with people, and you…”

The temptress studied the younger woman—younger-appearing, at any rate—and her stern expression relaxed. “Of course, dear. I’ll do whatever I can.” She smiled. “You may not be much with people, but you’re brilliant with animals. Many of the horses still fear us, but I wager you’ll manage to get them hitched up easier than any of us.”

Cassandra blinked. “That… makes sense,” she muttered.

“It’s about half a day to the market in Ostia, as you know,” Ellain went on. “So you’ll need to leave early to get there in time.”

“Right, right,” Moriel said, nodding. “But, um… wouldn’t it make sense to send a cart to Bellum, too?”

Ellain tilted her head. “Bellum? In Etruria?”

“That’s right. They have a wonderful market—I’ve caught glimpses of it while I’m out on patrol. We could probably get things there the Ostian market wouldn’t have.”

“But isn’t Bellum twice as far?” Cassandra interjected.

“Well, yes, almost. But there’s a well-kept road north of here that goes straight there. The wagons will move quicker than they do through the valley, so it should take just as long to get there.”

Ellain gave her an appreciative nod. “Impressive thinking. This might just work after all.”

“Yes,” Cassandra murmured, glaring at the stable floor. “It just might.”

_It took a few days, but Cassandra has accepted my offer. She tells me it’s only on a trial basis—but, then, she’s been telling me that for days now, and has yet to revoke my new duties. She’s wary about having a hostage taking care of anything for her, but I can tell she’s grateful for the help. I would be too, in her position; things were even more of a mess than I feared. I’m now effectively in charge of organizing the entire morph community. The old adage about being careful what you wish for comes to mind; I’ve gone from twiddling my thumbs between brief walks to neck-deep in ledgers and reports. Still, it’s good to have something to do again._

“It’s even better that he’s making himself useful to them,” Oswin said. “Makes it less likely they’ll kill him.”

Hector nodded, and resumed reading the letter. Raven listened with half an ear, not looking at the Ostian marquess as he spoke. His eyes were on the empty seat next to him—and the increasingly fidgety cleric on the other side. “What?” she hissed at last, eyes flicking to his.

“Where is he?” he whispered.

“Not well,” Serra answered. “He’s resting.”

He frowned—well, he was already frowning, but his face twisted into a deeper frown at her words. Lucius had always been frail—an ‘ailment of the soul,’ they’d called it. But at the meeting the week before, and every time Raven had laid eyes on him since, the monk had seemed to be in fair health. Raven hated to admit it, but spending time with the ridiculous pink-haired girl seemed to have given his friend more vitality than he’d thought possible. Why would he suddenly take ill now? “Did something happen?” he asked, voice as gentle as he could manage.

Not gentle enough, apparently, judging by the glare she shot him. “You can ask him yourself, later.” She motioned to Hector, who was finishing up his reading of the letter. “Right now, we have work to do.”

As if she didn’t avoid work whenever possible. Unfortunately, she was right. Raven turned his gaze back to the lord—trying to keep as much venom out of it as he could. Hector set down the letter, rubbing his temples. “Another week, and little has changed,” he sighed. “We need more information, and can’t get any.”

“It does seem as though Mark is doing more and more to ingratiate himself to the morphs,” Eliwood offered. “We can use that.”

“How?” Matthew shook his head. “We can’t exactly send him orders. I’m shocked Cassandra isn’t censoring his letters as it is.”

Raven felt his brow furrow. He looked over at the spymaster, seemingly the only man in the room as cautious as he was. “Are we sure she isn’t?”

Matthew shrugged. “There’s no evidence of it. Mark’s a terrible liar, so I’d know if he was trying to hide the fact that she was threatening him. And some of the things he tells us about the morphs—they’re not exactly damaging, but they seem like something she wouldn’t want him telling us. Someone in her position _should_ want us nervous, fearful that she might take his head at the first sign of trouble. But she actually seems to be behaving reasonably.” He crossed his arms, pressing back into his seat. “I can’t begin to tell you how frustrating that is.”

There were a few snorts around the table, but Raven simply nodded, mimicking Matthew’s pensive pose without realizing it. “Maybe she is honest, after all,” he muttered.

“Maybe,” Matthew agreed dubiously.

Hector opened his mouth to speak, but was interrupted by the creaking of the door at the end of the hall. A soldier stepped through, saluted. “Forgive the intrusion, my lord,” he said, his deep voice booming through the hall, “but one of your—”

He cut off as a slight figure slipped through the door beside him. Lucius looked as pale as ever, and the poor monk stumbled about on legs that looked like they’d snap at any moment. Raven was on his feet in an instant, but Serra somehow managed to beat him to Lucius’s side. Each of them took one of Lucius’s arms, even as the soldier trod carefully behind them. “He insisted on being let in, my lord,” the soldier went on. “I told him he should rest, but…”

“It’s all right,” Hector said, waving the man down. “As you were.” He studied the monk as Raven and Serra led him to his seat. “Lucius, I was told you weren’t feeling well, and by all appearances, it’s worse than I thought. He’s right; you should be resting.”

“I know, my lord,” Lucius said. “But I received a letter recently, and while reading it may have struck me low, I knew I needed to share it with you as soon as I awoke.”

“Lucius,” Serra said softly. Raven felt his own grip tighten on his friend’s arm.

Lucius shook his head, sinking into the empty chair. Raven and Serra took their seats beside him. “I’ve gotten a letter from Renault,” he said at last.

Canas sat up excitedly. “Where is he? Is he coming here?”

“Wait.” Matthew raised a hand. “My men haven’t been able to find Renault yet.”

Lucius nodded. “They didn’t. But he noticed them looking for him. He wrote to me to say that, whatever it is we need, we’re better off without him.”

Hector looked around at the table, then put his hand over his eyes. “Damn, damn, damn.”

Canas set his hand on the table. “He wouldn’t say that if he knew the situation. My lord, we must continue to try.”

“If he sent us a letter, we can try to trace it back to him,” Matthew said. “It’ll take a while.”

“I agree, my lord.” Lucius wobbled a bit on his chair, shut his eyes, took a breath. “I can try to—”

“Right now,” Lyn said sternly, “you are going to return to your quarters and get some rest.”

Hector nodded, looking at Raven and Serra. “You two see to it that he does. We’ll continue our discussion in the meantime.”

They rose without another word, scooping up the monk between them, despite his feeble protests, and all-but-carrying him from the hall. Serra, despite being a good head shorter than Raven and possessing half his strength, held up admirably as they tromped up the stairs to the guest quarters. Lucius’s chamber was near the castle chapel—as was Serra’s, although nobody seemed to worry that anything untoward might happen between two people of the cloth. Raven wasn’t as convinced, but he wasn’t about to go playing chaperone for the two of them if he wasn’t asked.

They got Lucius to his quarters. Raven laid him down gently as Serra got him something to drink. They left once they were certain the monk was asleep, and made their way back toward the main hall—at least, that’s where Raven thought they were going. It was only when Serra started up another flight of stairs that he realized they were heading in completely the wrong direction. “Where—?”

She shot a glare back at him. “You’ve been avoiding the marchioness since you got here,” she said. “It’s time we changed that.”

He stopped between steps, heart suddenly racing. “I haven’t been avoiding her,” he said, truthfully. “But every time I’ve gone to see her, she’s been asleep, or out, or—”

“Well, she’s likely to be awake now, and I know she’s not out, so this is your chance.” She turned, placing one hand on her hip as the other rested against the stairwell wall. “Or are you afraid?”

He set his jaw, and followed her up the stairs. They were halfway down a well-lit hallway when she stopped again, rapping on the large wooden door to the marchioness’s chambers. There was a brief pause, shuffling noises on the other side, and the door cracked open, the round face of a handmaiden looking out at him. “Yes?” she asked, studying the two of them with clear disapproval.

Serra stepped back, crossing her arms and looking at Raven. He met the maid’s gaze and cleared his throat. “I’m here to see—”

There was a soft gasp from the other side, and the door swung open. Her red hair had grown down to her shoulders, and she was taller than he remembered—he still thought of her as a little girl, but here she was, grown and married. “It’s all right, Anastasia,” she said to the handmaiden, as she studied the man before her. “Brother?”

He managed a smile. “Priscilla. I’m… Lucius and I are here for—”

“For Mark,” Priscilla said, nodding. “Yes, I heard.”

“For Mark,” he agreed. “And also for you.”

She smiled back. “You don’t have to say such things, Raymond. But I’m glad you did.” Her eyes went to the cleric at his side. “Sister Serra?”

Serra smiled, and bowed with uncharacteristic grace. “Just making sure he didn’t lose his way again, cousin.”

Priscilla’s laugh took him right back to their childhood. “I see. I owe you a debt, then.”

“Oh, I’ll add it to the list.” Her words were haughty, but the smile she gave Priscilla as she flipped her hair back was genuine. She turned and swept down the hall, every bit as refined as the marchioness she left behind.

Raven gave his sister a sidelong look. “She’s… not _really_ our cousin, is she?”

“She has offered no proof, but I have asked for none.” Priscilla gave him a knowing smile before looking down. “I’m sorry I keep missing these meetings, but…” She rubbed the rounded bulge of her belly.

He nodded, eyeing her uncertainly. “It would have been nice to have you there. I fear your husband and I still don’t get along.”

She closed her eyes. “It would be too much to ask for the two most important men in my life to like each other, I suppose.”

“Hector and I _respect_ each other,” Raven said. “But we’re a long way from ‘like,’ I’m afraid.”

Her shoulders lifted and fell. “Well. At least there’s that.”

Raven looked around the hall. He’d been a mercenary for years, and yet this still took all the courage he could muster. “Look, I… I’m sorry about how I’ve been. I know you love Hector, and I should have been there to support you when you agreed to marry him.”

She shook her head, eyes down. “You don’t need to apologize.”

“But I do,” he insisted. “Because I want to change that. I want to be a part of your life again, Priscilla… yours, and my nephew’s.”

A corner of her mouth lifted. “Or niece’s.”

“Or niece’s.” He offered his arm. “Would you… like to take a walk with me? We’ve got a lot of catching up to do.”

Her handmaid started to voice a protest, but Priscilla had already taken his arm. “I’d love to.”


	7. Chapter 7

"I am still not sure this is a good idea," Durran rumbled, staring up at the fort wall. Morphs on either side of the corner were adding stones and mortar to rebuild the collapsed section—all according to his instructions. "I am not an engineer."

"You're a guardsman," Mark answered, making notes on a sheet of paper as he studied the rebuilding. "Perhaps the best here. You understand more about defense than any morph in the fort."

"But it is a long way from that to building a wall," Durran added. He pointed up at one of the morphs. "No, no! Place that one in the triangle niche between the other two. Remember, wall must look abandoned from outside."

Mark smiled up at him—quite a ways up, in fact. He'd met plenty of huge men during the war, but Durran seemed to have an inch or two even on Lord Hector. The morph was built—quite literally—like a mountain, to help him fulfill his role as a defender. In his armor, the man resembled nothing so much as a mobile steel wall. Even without it, he was a force to be reckoned with.

"You're also a lot smarter than you give yourself credit for," Mark said. "You've been patrolling these walls since you first arrived at the fort, and you've learned a good deal about their construction in that time. You're the one who alerted Ronic that this corner was in danger of collapsing, after all."

Durran frowned. "You must be joking. I was simply performing my duty. I did not learn anything about walls."

Mark motioned to the corner. "And yet…"

The last stone fell into place, seated perfectly amongst its brethren. The morphs on the ramparts began testing the repair job—gently, of course, given that the mortar needed time to set—and found very little motion. For a job done with whatever stones they could find at the feet of the mountains, the wall appeared to be stable—and Mark was sure that, when it was done setting, it would be as strong as ever.

Durran crossed his arms, gazing up at the wall. "Huh," he grunted. "Perhaps you are not completely mad after all, little human." He slapped Mark on the back, nearly sending the tactician sprawling. Mark managed to keep a grip on his notebook, and smiled at the large morph as he walked away, still muttering to himself. He'd received plenty of slaps like that from Bartre, Wallace, and even Hector himself—though for a morph to show him such affection was nearly unprecedented. The people of this fort kept finding new ways to surprise him.

He stopped himself, staring at the retreating back of Durran. The _people_ of this fort. When had he started thinking of them that way?

"Well done," Denning said, emerging from the shadows of a nearby building. "I think Ronic will be pleased."

"Why are you congratulating me?" Mark asked, slipping his notebook into his satchel—a small leather one Cassandra had allowed him for use in his new duties. He still had no idea where the bag he'd had when he was captured had wound up. "Durran did all the work. I just pointed him in the right direction."

Denning nodded. "You continue to demonstrate a keen understanding of our strengths, and how to use them."

A gruff voiced joined his. "Some might worry you had a keen understanding of our weaknesses, as well."

Mark turned to find Gavin's all-too-familiar glare fixed on him. He suppressed his grimace. A week of working as the fort's administrator had gone a long way toward thawing relationships between himself and the morphs. Not only was he interacting face-to-face with more of them, but he'd already improved their lives in some ways, giving them more fulfilling work and more free time. But a few of them remained adamant in their dislike of him, and Gavin was still chief among them. Mark was not looking forward to spending the morning with the man.

He still managed a smile. "Gavin. You're our third for the day?"

"That's right."

Mark nodded at him. "It's nice to see you again. It's been a while."

"Yes, it has." Gavin eyed him coldly. "We're not here to chat. We're here to get you exercise. Let's go."

He brushed between them; Denning cast an apologetic look at Mark before motioning for him to follow, taking the rear. They had no particular destination in mind today, simply winding through the streets of the fort. Mark caught the occasional smiles from morphs he'd met over the last week, though they quickly looked away when Gavin turned his sharp gaze on them. Perhaps taking the idea of 'exercise' too seriously, he set a fast pace, leaving Mark and Denning hurrying to keep up. The tactician was short of breath by the time his guards came to a sudden halt. He almost bumped into Gavin's back. "What is it?" he asked, looking around with concern.

Gavin raised an arm for silence. After a moment, Mark could hear it too; shouts coming from the gate. He looked over at Denning, who shrugged, and opened his mouth to speak—

A sharp grinding noise shot through the fort like an arrow. The gate was being opened. Gavin was off like a bolt, Denning striding after; both men had drawn their weapons. "Come on," the archer urged him.

Mark fell in quickly—then faltered. "Shouldn't I go back to—?"

"No time," Denning said, an edge entering his voice. "Come _on._ "

He was off without another word, and Mark rushed to keep up. He had no doubt that, if he tried to escape now, Denning's bow would be trained on him in an instant—to say nothing of Gavin. In truth, though, escape was far from his mind at the moment. He was as anxious to see what was going on as anyone.

They followed the familiar path they took every week when Mark delivered his letters; this time, though, they were joined by a throng of morphs rushing to see what the commotion does. Mark could feel their eyes on him, some passing idly by, some lingering with curiosity, some glaring with resentment. They finally arrived, just in time to see the heavy wooden gates finish swinging open. He could already hear approaching hoofbeats. Moments later, a trio of morphs, mounted on brown stallions, came galloping through the gate.

One had an unmoving form draped over the back of his horse. A body with black hair and pale skin.

Denning gasped—something Mark had rarely heard before. "They found one," he whispered. "It had been so long, we thought—"

"Make way!" Cassandra's shout cut through the crowd a moment before she did. She rushed the three of them, sparing them only a glance as her braid lashed out. The way closed behind her as the morphs crowded to see. Cassandra reached the riders just in time to help lower the unconscious morph to the ground. She turned her glare to the crowd. "Stay back," she warned. "Give us some room." She had—Mark's pulse quickened as he noticed—one hand on her sword.

Denning similarly kept one hand on his bow as he began shouldering his way through the crowd. "Stay close," he called back to Mark.

The tactician hesitated—

"You can come with us," Gavin hissed, "or Denning can waste arrows on pinning you to the ground. Your choice."

Mark fell in immediately, following the morphs as closely as possible as they wound a path through the crowd. His memory flashed back to the last time he'd followed another while chasing Cassandra through a crowd, and a bittersweet smile crossed his face for an instant.

Then they emerged. Cassandra glanced at them again, her eyebrows knitting together at the sight of Mark, but she quickly returned her attention to the situation at hand. "What's it look like?" she asked.

Peleus was kneeling over an unconscious figure with a group of other healers; they were standing so close together, Mark could barely see the morph on the ground. Peleus was checking for a pulse. "Exhaustion. They haven't had food or water in perhaps two days. They're unarmed, and have very little in the way of supplies."

 _They?_ Mark pushed himself up on his toes, but couldn't see clearly enough to tell whether the newcomer was a man or a woman. _Or neither,_ he reminded himself, remembering Limstella.

"We found them by a river with this," one of the riders said, presenting an empty waterskin. "They must have been on their way to get a drink when they collapsed."

"What are the chances of them un-collapsing?" Gavin asked, eyes roaming the morph's body.

Peleus shook his head. "None, until we do something for them." He looked directly at Cassandra. "So… what are we going to do?"

"What we always do." She nodded to the riders. "My quarters, quickly. Durran, accompany the healers while I get the book."

She turned to Mark next, and as her gaze held his, she seemed uncertain for an instant—but just an instant. "You two, get him back to his room and then come join us," she said, motioning to Gavin and Denning.

Gavin nodded, immediately grabbing Mark's left arm. Denning, however, paused. "Perhaps we could—"

Gavin elbowed him. "Of all the opportunities to not argue with her," he muttered, "now seems like a very auspicious one."

Denning met his gaze for a brief moment, and looked back at Cassandra before giving a single nod. Indeed, she was already sweeping away, seeming to have missed the interaction altogether, as the two of them started leading him away. Mark spared a thought to note the way Gavin spoke to his counterpart. He'd rarely seen the two men speak about anything other than him; was it possible that, despite their diametrically opposed attitudes to their hostage, they were actually friends?

Not that he spent much time pondering it. A new morph had been brought to the fort. Already, as word spread through the crowd around him, he could sense the change in the atmosphere. The whispers were similar to what he'd heard when he was first hauled blindfolded through the streets, but where those voices had held apprehension, these were thick with excitement. "They found another one?" "Are they going to make it?" "What do you think they're like?" "Is Cassandra going to—?"

The door to his building slammed shut behind them, cutting off the murmurings. He did not resist as they pulled him—no, guided him upstairs to his room and motioned him through the door. "Stay here," Gavin said, eyes dark despite their color. "And if someone comes to the door—unless it's one of us—don't let them in."

That, Mark had not expected. "What?"

"Until we know more about the new morph," Denning said quietly, "this room is not just your cell—it's also the safest place for you to be."

Gavin nodded—it was the closest the man had come to showing concern for their hostage. That, more than anything, left Mark unsettled.

"All right," he said. "Just—be careful. And tell Cassandra the same."

Gavin's sneer returned. "She doesn't need you to tell her that, human."

"But we'll pass along your sentiment," Denning said, eyeing the other. "Let's go."

They were gone without another word, the door slamming and the bolt clicking before Mark even registered their movement. The stillness crashed into him like a wave, and he found he had to sit down. His mind raced to catch up to what happened in the last few minutes. They'd brought a new morph to the fort—and Cassandra was about to free them, just as she'd freed Denning from speaking the same fourteen words, just as she'd freed Ellain from living only to seduce men. This was something he'd been hoping for ever since he'd arrived at the fort—and he was going to miss it.

He momentarily considered trying to sneak out. The thought collapsed almost immediately. There was no way he could force the door or pick the lock, and that was the only exit from the room. Not to mention, even if they hadn't left a guard outside, the only human in a fort full of morphs stuck out like a gold mark among silvers. He'd be caught and dragged back in minutes, and in so doing, burn all the goodwill he'd struggled to build.

No, he was going to miss whatever she was going to do, and that was that. Sighing, he turned to his table, got out some of the paper he'd been given for his letters, and began writing what little he did know. He'd been secreting away what paper he could for the purposes of keeping a diary, more for his own benefit than anyone else's. He hadn't written down anything compromising, in case it was discovered by the morphs. Still, he kept its existence a secret; he valued what little privacy he had.

He'd been at it for five minutes when the lock clicked open again. He immediately hid the pages before leaning back from the table, looking over at the door as it swung open. "How did it—"

He cut off. The person at the door was not Denning, or Gavin, or even Cassandra herself. In fact, it was someone he couldn't place—a morph, short and slight of frame, with a drawn narrow face, androgynous features, and close-cut hair. Their golden eyes, which looked somehow harder than those of the others, roamed the room for a moment before settling on Mark. They were leaning against the doorframe as though unable to hold their own weight—but their gaze held purpose.

The tactician suddenly felt hollow. He'd been trying to place the morph's face, and could not do so. Now he understood why. This was the newcomer.

And they were carrying an ax.

He'd have expected a roar, or a battle cry, but the morph lunged without making a sound, the ax swinging for Mark's head. For his part, Mark was not nearly as quiet; his yelp bounced off the walls of the room like arrows as he shoved himself away from the table. The blade razed the surface, smashing the ink bottle and leaving black fluid dripping from the steel. The morph swung the ax around for another blow—and staggered, nearly losing their balance before recovering and bringing the weapon to bear on Mark. The loss of coordination did not go unnoticed by the tactician; it wasn't a heavy ax, and shouldn't have been giving them that much difficulty. They were still recovering from their exhaustion and dehydration.

That still didn't make for an even playing field. But it perhaps meant that Mark stood a chance.

The morph was still between him and the door—that was the first thing he was going to have to address. Gritting his teeth, Mark gave the table a good kick, enough to send it crashing to the ground between them and filling the air with loose paper. The morph swatted the sheets out of the way as they vaulted the fallen table, moving much faster than a human opponent might—but much slower than they should have. By the time they landed on the other side of the table, Mark was already rounding it, dashing through the cloud of paper toward the door. It was still open from the morph's entrance—

There was a rush of air by his ear, and the ax _thunked_ into the wood of the doorframe. His entire body jerked involuntarily away from the weapon; his shoulder hit the other side of the door as he stumbled to the ground. There was a swirl of papers, and the morph was there. One yank was enough to pry the ax from the wood, and they were looming over Mark, slowly raising the ax. They were tired, but the moment they took to catch their breath wasn't enough for the tactician to get to his feet. The morph grimaced as they swung—

There was a whisper of motion, a glint of steel, the snap of a braid.

The haft was still in the morph's hands as the ax head clattered to the ground beside Mark. The morph blinked in confusion, staring at the impossibly smooth cut in the wood. They had only a moment to wonder at it before the pommel of Cassandra's sword struck them in the face—then in the throat. "They're in here!" she shouted over her shoulder as she stepped into the room. "Hurry!"

The morph staggered backward, clutching at their neck, eyes widening just in time for her foot to impact their stomach; they doubled over, and one last blow to the back of their head sent them to the ground, their body lying still on the floor.

Mark looked up at her. The morph leader was breathing heavily, a single bead of sweat hanging from her hair. "How—"

"Shut up." She quickly crossed to the fallen morph, checking them over. "They're out—again. We need to move fast."

Mark started to rise. "We—?"

He was suddenly pushed aside as a group of six or seven morphs herded into the room. Denning crossed over to Mark, eyeing him with concern. "Are you all right?" he asked. "When they got away from us, we—"

"He's fine," Cassandra said, waving him over to the man's body. "I checked. Come on—we have to be quick."

Mark wasn't sure when she had "checked" him, but that hardly seemed to matter at the moment. Gavin and Denning grabbed the morph as Cassandra righted the table; they lifted them on to it, pinning their arms despite their unconsciousness. Peleus and a few other healers filed in after them, including a flushed-looking Grace, gripping her stomach with one hand, her staff with the other. One of them handed Cassandra a book—not a magic tome, not from the designs on the cover, but large and old, judging from the faded red leather. Cassandra opened the book, stepping over to the table.

"Wait," Gavin said, eyes flicking to Mark. "Shouldn't we—?"

"No time." Cassandra didn't even look up as she paged through the book. She appeared to find what she was looking for, and motioned to the others. "Hold them. The rest of you, get clear." She leaned down, lowering the book, and whispered something in the morph's ear.

Their eyes snapped open, and their entire body jerked upward. Denning and Gavin let out cries of alarm as they pushed against their grip. "I said hold them!" Cassandra shouted, as she returned her gaze to the book. "Sleep staves, now!"

Some of the healers thrust forth their staves, and the harsh glow encompassed the morph on the table. Their thrashing lessened, but did not stop. Cassandra barely noticed; she was reading from the book—at least, Mark assumed she was. The words, if they could be called that, were like no language he'd ever heard. It sounded like a random assortment of consonants and vowels, strung together in a continuous string of almost-speech, barely leaving her time to take a breath in between utterances. Mark wasn't sure whether she was speaking a true language, or some sort of arcane chant.

Either way, there was no denying the effect it had on the morph. Even with the healers continuously pouring energy from the sleep staves onto them, they were wide awake. Two of the healers had to join Denning and Gavin in restraining them, two hands pinning each limb to the table, and still they fought like a caged animal, grabbing and clawing at the others when they could, their incoherent shouts mixing with cries of pain, all echoing above Cassandra's constant chanting.

At last, Cassandra leaned forward, shouting the final few words directly into the morph's ear. Their entire body tensed, spine arching off the table—and then they fell back, eyes wide, body still. They were breathing heavily, as though they'd just finished a long sprint, and made no move to escape as the morphs restraining them tentatively moved away. Their eyes went from one face to another, resting only briefly on Mark's, as though they hadn't been trying to kill the man moments before. Cassandra slowly closed the book as she looked over them. "What is your name?" she asked, voice low, but stong.

They looked up at her, eyes clouding over for a moment before they answered. "Luther," they said; their throat sounded like a desert.

"And what is your purpose?" Her gaze was intent on them.

They opened their mouth to answer—and left it hanging open, as their eyes widened in shock. They finally stirred, rising on the table; Denning and Gavin flinched, but did not grab them again as they sat up. They looked around at the morphs, at Mark; their brow furrowed at the sight of the human, whom they stared at for a long while, but did not truly seem to see. They turned back to Cassandra, shaking their head. "I—I don't know."

She frowned. "Think. Think hard, Luther. What is your purpose?"

Everyone in the room seemed to hold their breath for the long moment before they spoke again. "I don't… think I… have one."

Silence again. Mark looked over at Cassandra—and his breath caught at the sight of a tear rolling down her cheek. "That's right," she whispered. "You don't. Not anymore."

Grace stepped forward, presenting her healing staff. The far gentler glow enveloped Luther's body, and seemed to ease their pain—somewhat. "If I don't have a purpose," they asked, looking around at the group, "then what do I do?"

"Rest," Grace commanded. "You were dehydrated and exhausted even before Cassandra freed you. You need to rest before you do anything else."

"And after that," Denning said softly, laying a hand on the morph's shoulder, "you are free to do as you choose."

They looked to each of the others, their face twisting in confusion. "Free…?"

"I know it's strange," Cassandra said. Mark didn't think he'd ever heard her speak in that tone before. "It will get better with time. For now, we'll find you a place to stay. Do as Grace says. Rest."

Luther got to their feet, seeming almost glad to have orders to follow. Denning started toward the door, and Luther trotted obediently after him, Gavin taking up the rear. Once they were gone, the others started to slowly file out, whispering to each other, some glancing at their leader, some glancing at Mark. Cassandra, for her part, did not move. Even when the last of the morphs was gone, she stayed quiet and still for a long time.

Mark swallowed past the lump in his throat, and took a step toward her. "Are you all right?"

She looked at him at last—and he was shocked to see she was smiling. "I am," she answered. "The process is more emotionally draining than anything."

The process. Mark shook his head. "That was amazing. You were amazing."

Her smile faded, and she turned away. "I imagine you'll be telling Lord Hector about this."

Mark gave a start of surprise. He'd forgotten all about his letters to Ostia, and Matthew, and Hector, and… "I don't even know what there is to tell," he said, looking down. The red book was still in her arms. "That's—"

"One of Nergal's notebooks," Cassandra finished. She held it up for him to see. "From back when he started making morphs—so long ago, I doubt he remembers making it." She opened the book, languidly turning the pages. "By the time you met him, he'd done it so often he didn't need his notes. He certainly didn't miss them after I took them."

Mark's lips parted. "You stole them?"

"Well, I didn't…" Cassandra's brow furrowed, her eyes skimming the pages to avoid meeting his. "I suppose you could say that, yes. I stumbled across his library while I was stationed on Valor. I started going through his notes, looking for a way to…" She trailed off, her fingers pausing on the pages.

Mark slowly circled the room, coming to stand in front of her. "To… what?"

She slammed the book shut, making him jump as her gaze snapped up to him. "To fix myself. I knew I was defective. I thought things no morph should consider; saw things no morph should envision. I wanted to be like the others again." She glared at him, as if daring him to speak.

He took that dare. "You weren't defective, Cassandra," he said softly. "You—"

She laughed. "I don't need you to tell me that now. As I read, I began to realize that Nergal designed us to submit to his will. And, as lonely as I felt being the only one not under his sway, I began to realize that, instead of 'fixing' myself, I could start 'breaking' the others." Her eyes fell to the book once more. "Because I wouldn't really be breaking them. I'd be _freeing_ them."

Mark paused, looking at her with a new respect. The way she held herself at that moment, she seemed so small and vulnerable—yet knowing what she'd done, he thought her the strongest person he'd ever met. "The words?" he asked.

She opened the book again, showing him the marks Nergal had made decades before. The letters were familiar, but they were jumbled together into nonsensical, nearly unpronounceable, patterns. "It's a sort of code. To human ears, the sounds may be meaningless; but, spoken to a morph at the proper time, they become a set of commands. They can be used to change their purpose…" Her eyes went to the door. "Or to remove it altogether."

Mark followed her gaze, the image of Luther's face bright in his mind. "He—they—didn't seem happy."

"I took their purpose from them." She closed the book, softly this time. "I took _everything_ from them. Do you have any idea what that's like?"

Without meaning to, Mark found himself thinking back six years, to that first unbearable morning when he'd woken in a strange place, accompanied by a strange girl. "Yes," he whispered. "I do."

Her hands went still, and her gaze met his. "I see." Her tone offered no apology or sympathy, yet there was a warmth to it he could not name.

He looked down at the book, at her slender fingers across the spine. "Why tell me all this?" he asked.

She shrugged. "You already saw me free Luther. You'll be telling Hector one way or another. Better that you understand—that you help him understand." She held up the book. "This is why I'm here, Mark. Why we're all here. I saw how Nergal treated his creations—his tools—and sought to save as many of them as I can. This book is the how and why of it all."

Without quite meaning to, he placed a hand on the cover. "You think I can convince Hector your intentions are peaceful?"

She shrugged. "I have no idea. But my goal is to let the others live out their days here peacefully. If Hector leaves us alone until then…"

Mark frowned. "Until when?"

Cassandra eyed him a moment, then shook her head. "I have to go. And you have a letter to write." She lowered the book, turning her back on him. "I told you I wouldn't change the content of your letters, Mark. I meant that."

She paused a moment, looking around the room. He carefully came up beside her. "What is it?"

She again caught him off-guard with her smile—though this time, it was more of a smirk. "Just remembering the last time I was up here." She cast a pointed look at his bed.

He didn't need a mirror to know his cheeks were turning scarlet. "Didn't you say you had to go?" He tried to keep the words light. He did not succeed.

She laughed—not harshly—and started for the door again. He hesitated a moment before calling to her back. "Cassandra?"

She paused, glancing over her shoulder at him.

"Thank you," he said. "For saving my life."

She turned away. "You're welcome," she said after a moment. "I'm glad you're all right."

The door shut before he could say anything more.

_Without the exact words she spoke, I'm not sure how useful this information is. I've reproduced a few of them here as best I can; perhaps the scholars can make some use of it. Cassandra has not shown me the book itself. In the wrong hands, it could be used to turn the morphs back into a fighting force, under the control of whoever reads the commands. The fact that she trusts me—and, by extension, you, my lord—with even this much information is astonishing. And, perhaps, a little encouraging._

"We'll need a palanquin, of course," Serra said, brushing out her hair. "I may have allowed Hector to drag my weary feet all over Elibe five years ago, but that will simply not do this time."

"Sister Serra," Lucius began. If he felt uncomfortable at all being in her chambers, he didn't show it, standing a respectful distance from where she sat at her vanity.

"We'll need servants, of course. Perhaps cousin Priscilla will share some of hers." She hadn't actually dug far enough into her genealogy to know Raven and Priscilla were her cousins, of course, but they she was sure they were related somehow. They were all Etrurian nobles, after all, regardless of who tried to hide it. "I simply couldn't abide a return trip to Valor without a lady's maid. Have you ever had a manservant, Lucius? Oh—of course you haven't. It may seem strange at first, but I promise you'll get used to it."

He drew a breath. "Sister Serra."

She quickly scoured her mind for something else to address. She didn't dare give him a chance to speak, for she knew exactly what he'd say. "We won't have to ride with those awful pirates again, will we? Dart—or is it Dan? He wasn't so bad, but I don't fancy having to spend any more time with Fargus and his rabble than I must. Their leers were bad enough when they thought I was a simple cleric, and we were traveling with an entire army at our backs. If they learned my true lineage—"

"Sister Serra," he interrupted at last, "I don't think you should come with me."

There it was. She let the brush fall from her hands, and sprang to her feet, as though the words surprised her. "Lucius! I simply will not hear of it! You were bedridden after just a letter from Father Renault. How do you think you'll manage meeting him face-to-face? After he—"

She cut herself off, mindful of their company. Raven stood with arms crossed near the door, keeping curiously silent about her calling Priscilla 'cousin' before. Poor Florina was a few paces to his left, trying not to look as intimidated as she clearly was. It seemed even being married hadn't wholly cured her fear of men. The two of them were supposedly there to escort Lucius; it was better than having them admit they were there as chaperones, she supposed.

Lucius had long since confided in her about what he knew of Renault, and what the bishop had done to Lucius's father decades before. It was the most trust anyone had ever shown her, and she wasn't about to betray it in front of their escorts.

Lucius lowered his eyes. The evening light shone through the windows of her chamber, casting a soft glow across the monk's features. It wasn't fair; he was too beautiful already, and now he shined with a saintly light? Elimine herself could not have been so lovely, so selfless, so—

She tore her gaze from him.

"I worked alongside Renault before, five years ago," Lucius said. "I can do so again. It was simply the… shock… of hearing from him again that upset me so." He shrugged. "And we need to find him, Serra. With what Mark's letter says of how Cassandra frees the morphs, of Nergal's notebook… as much as I wish to respect his privacy, this is too important. We need Renault here."

"I'm not arguing that," Serra said, lifting her nose. "I'm just saying, there's no way I'm allowing you to go alone."

"Finally," Raven growled. "Something we agree on."

Serra froze. "You're not going with him?"

Raven shot a glare at the monk. "Stubborn fool says he won't let me."

"This is something I need to do on my own," Lucius said softly. "Matthew's spies can help me find him, but he'll only talk to—"

"Absolutely not!" Serra waved a hand to silence him. "Lucius, you need both of us. Cousin Raymond's strength will keep you safe—"

Florina cast a surprised look at Raven. "You're related?"

"It's a point of contention," he growled back.

"And my regal bearing and gift for diplomacy will ensure cooperation from anyone we—" She whirled around in her seat, glaring at Raven. "Stop laughing!"

"I'm not laughing," Raven replied, unsuccessfully trying to hide his smirk behind a gloved hand.

"Yes you are!" she pouted. "Stop it at once!" She turned her glare on Florina. "And that goes for you, too!"

The poor dear went rigid, her smile not-quite-vanishing. "I wasn't laughing!" she protested.

Serra sighed, turning away and putting a hand to her temples. "Honestly. You think the two of you had no idea how to act in front of a noblewoman."

"Oh, I believe we do," Raven said, casting a smirk at Florina. "The trouble is, we have no idea how to act in front of _you_."

Rage boiled up inside her, and she leapt to her feet once more. "You—!"

"Lord Raymond." Lucius's cool voice swept through the room like a summer breeze. "Dame Florina. Might I ask that you leave us alone for a moment?"

Raven's smile finally dropped. "You sure?"

Florina looked around at them nervously. "We're, um, not really supposed to…"

"I ask only that you wait outside for a moment," Lucius went on. "If you suspect anything untoward, you may re-enter."

A small part of Serra thought she should point out that this was _her_ chamber, and she should be the one deciding who came and went. She dismissed that part as she would a troublesome servant.

"All right," Raven demurred. He turned away, gesturing to Florina. "Let's go. Leave the lovebirds alone for a moment."

She shrank away from him, but followed, casting one last look back at Serra before slipping through the door.

Lucius stood there with his hands folded in front of him, looking for all the world like an icon. "I know you worry about me," he said. "And I appreciate it."

She looked him over for a moment; his shining hair, his deep eyes… she turned away with a sigh. "You needn't bother with the speech," she mumbled. "There's no way I could deny you."

There was a pause. "I'm sorry?"

She waved a hand, still not looking at him. "Just go. I won't fight you, or tell Hector to send me with you, or sneak out after you, or whatever other foolhardy thing you think I'd attempt." She raised her head again. "I do have my own duties at court, you know. I can't simply go gallivanting after you on some wild hen chase."

He had the good sense not to point out that had been exactly what she was planning to do not five minutes earlier. "I'll come back," he said softly.

She began brushing her hair again. "I'm certain you will," she said airily. "And then…"

_And then what? We'll both confess our feelings, renounce our vows, and get married? The orphaned son of a mercenary, and the daughter of Etrurian nobles whose name she can't remember? Recant our devotion to Saint Elimine and instead devote ourselves to each other?_

"You may go," she croaked. When had her throat grown so hoarse?

Lucius hesitated for an agonizing moment, as if he might stay and torment her with his soothing voice some more. She only let out her breath when he finally turned away, watching him in the mirror as he made his way to the door and exited.

She waited until she was sure he, Raven, and Florina were gone before rising to go herself. A few cold hallways and stairways with too many stairs brought her to the castle library, where the scholars were gathered around Mark's letter like vultures around a freshly-abandoned carcass. Pent, newly arrived from Etruria, was huddled over it with his student, Erk. With his hair trimmed, Erk looked like a younger version of his master, only with a purple mop atop his head instead of light blue. Serra briefly smiled at the sight of the young mage before remembering that she'd been over him for years.

Canas stood by, eyes shut as he muttered something to himself. He started talking to the others about how the words sounded similar to those of ancient scripts, and warned they might be sailing into the dangerous waters of elder magic, and Serra tried not to yawn. Lucius would have been here, too, if he wasn't preparing to—

She grimaced, and turned away. There were two other figures in the library, one sitting near—but not with—the collection of mages. This was a tall, long-haired, blonde beauty—although this one was actually female. Serra exchanged a nod and a smile with the Lady Lousie (she wasn't yet brave enough to try calling her Aunt Louise), whose attention quickly returned to Pent. Serra wondered briefly what it would be like to be so fully devoted to someone.

_Like you're supposed to be devoted to Elimine?_

She ignored the voice, as she had so many times over the years. She passed the table and made her way into the stacks, toward the other figure—who was already trying to slip away into the shadows of the library. She caught up to him, though, and seized the hem of his cloak. "Matthew!" she hissed.

The spy muttered what was probably a curse before turning to her with a smile that looked like the corners of his mouth had been pinned up. "What can I do for you, Sister Serra?" he asked.

"That's _Sister_ Serra to you, and—" She cut off, frowning up at him. "Fine. The morph that attacked Mark."

Matthew lifted his eyes, making a show of thinking it over. "The one he mentioned in his letter? Luther, I believe?"

"That's right."

"What about them?"

"Does Mark know you're the reason Luther attacked him?"

Matthew went suddenly still, which Serra found infuriating. He should have at least had the decency to deny it. Or, better, the decency to admit to it. Was that better? She wasn't entirely sure. She wasn't entirely sure she cared, either.

"If you know enough to ask the question," Matthew said quietly, "then you already know the answer."

She hissed out a breath. "You could have gotten Mark killed!"

He shook his head. "The morphs wouldn't let that happen. And it's not like we sent Luther after him ourselves. We just dropped them off where the morphs would find them."

"Knowing full well they would attack Mark as soon as they knew he was there," Serra growled.

Again, he didn't deny it. "And because of that, Cassandra performed the procedure in front of him, and we now know more than ever about the morphs."

"Except we don't really know anything, because we don't know the 'code' she used!" _Which is why Lucius has to go chasing after Renault…_

"Serra," Matthew said with more patience than he deserved to have, "this is still a good thing. My network has been searching for weeks for a morph we could use to gather information. We found Luther at an outpost—they'd been waiting five years for orders that never came. Thanks to us, they have a home, we know about Cassandra's process and Nergal's book, and Mark has grown closer to the morphs than ever."

Everything he said was true, which just made Serra hate him all the more. "Mark is our friend," she growled. "You shouldn't be using him like this."

That, to her surprise, put shame in his eyes. "I know."

She waited for him to go on—to justify his actions, to tell her why it was ok, to assure her this would all bring Mark back and put an end to the situation soon. When he didn't, she turned and stomped off. Hopefully, he'd think she was still angry with him, and not pick up on how infuriated she was with herself.


	8. Chapter 8

Ellain knew to expect the worst when she heard the knock on her door, but she was still unprepared for how haggard Gavin looked. The poor man was out of breath, the shock in his face completely blocking out the admiration he usually showed her. “It’s Cassandra,” he gasped. “In the bakery. She…” He shook his head. “You need to come right away.”

Ellain lost no time in gathering her things and rushing out the door. “Get two buckets of water and meet me there,” she commanded.

Gavin rushed off to obey as Ellain dashed to the bakery. Her skirts swished about her elegantly even as she ran across the fort grounds. She ignored the surprised looks she was collecting and made her way through the bakery door—where she stopped short at the sight before her. “Gods above,” she whispered. “It’s worse than I imagined.”

Cassandra shot her a glare from her position by the oven. The morph leader was covered head to toe in flour and some unidentifiable mixture of sauces—which was nothing compared to her surroundings. The place looked less like a bakery, and more like an alchemy lab, one that had played host to a horrible accident. “I told Gavin not to get you,” Cassandra muttered.

“Then we are fortunate that he did not listen.” Ellain stepped into the bakery, taking in the scene. The room was small, having merely been a storage area before one of their number had turned his attention from dark magic to baking, and built a brick oven in the center of it all. Right now, the entire place looked like something had exploded. There was a pot in the oven, which was covered in splatters and burns. Rivers of liquid ran from it across the floor, and smoke was leaking out from the top even after the fire in the oven had been extinguished. “Were you trying to… _bake_ a soup?”

“Of course not!” Cassandra snapped. She looked at the oven, let out a slow breath, and pinched the bridge of her nose. “All right, maybe.”

Ellain resisted the urge to shake her head, and turned toward the door and the sound of approaching footsteps. “Better make it three buckets, Gavin,” she called, even as the man entered the room. He set down the two buckets he was already carrying, shot an apologetic look at Cassandra, and darted off. “And bring Grace, if the poor thing feels up to it!” she called after him.

“He wouldn’t be doing this if he weren’t besotted with you,” Cassandra glowered.

“I can’t help it if he has good taste.” Ellain found a pair of sponges in a cupboard and dropped them both in the water, wringing one out and carrying it over to Cassandra. “Where is Haymer?” she asked, scrubbing at her leader’s face. “Last I checked, this was his bakery.”

“Stop that at once!” Cassandra shouted, trying to push away the sponge. As usual, though, Ellain won the confrontation through pure stubbornness; Cassandra’s hands fell to her sides as she submitted to her ministrations. “I told him I needed the bakery,” she muttered. “He was all too happy to leave me to my work.”

“You scared him off,” Ellain interpreted.

“I—” Cassandra bit off her retort, eyes smoldering.

“You know,” Ellain went on, continuing to scrub at the congealing sauce, “the entire point of having Mark start helping you was so that you _wouldn’t_ have to do everything by yourself.”

“Yes, and?”

“If you want to make him dinner as thanks for his help, mightn’t you have made use of Haymer’s expertise—or my own?”

Cassandra pulled away, glaring at the sponge. “This was your idea, as I recall. You and Denning and Grace cornered me until I agreed to do this for him.”

“That sounds about right,” Ellain said, undeterred. “If by ‘cornered’ you mean ‘gently suggested that we do something nice for him,’ that is. _We_ , I might point out, not _you_.”

Cassandra slumped against the cooling wall of the oven. “I shouldn’t have to do anything _nice_ for a hostage,” she grumbled.

“Even after all he’s done for you? Between your leadership and his organization, things have been running more smoothly than ever. You yourself finally have free time.”

“Too much free time.”

Ellain smiled. “Don’t pretend you don’t enjoy it. I saw you reading a book the other day—not a ledger or an atlas, but an honest-to-gods book.”

Cassandra turned her sulky gaze to the wall as Ellain started on one of her cheeks. “Perhaps,” she admitted. “In any case, since you were all so insistent we do something nice for him, I figured I should be the one to do so. I’m the one he’s helping, after all.”

“He’s helping all of us,” Ellain replied. She stood back, clicking her tongue. “This isn’t working. Gavin, dear?”

The morph man was just rounding the corner when she spoke, holding another bucket. He jumped at the sound of her voice, and a hint of red came to his pale cheeks. “Yes?”

“Did you bring—” Grace appeared around the corner even as she spoke. “Ah, excellent.” Ellain smiled softly at the diminutive healer. “How are you feeling?”

“All right,” Grace said, her voice mildly hoarse, but still strong. “I still don’t know what ails me, but it usually passes by midday.” She looked over Cassandra. “I can see how baking the soup went wrong, but where did the flour come from?”

“I don’t want to talk about it,” Cassandra muttered.

“Well,” Ellain went on, “if you feel up to it, I’ll need you to take Cassandra off my hands. Gavin and I will handle the cooking while you get her cleaned up.” She turned to her leader, who was already jumping to her feet. “No complaints, now. You may be in charge here, but”—she motioned to the spills, scorches, and stains surrounding them—“I think you’ve had enough cooking for one day.”

Cassandra looked between the three of them, indecision simmering in her eyes. She wanted to handle the cooking herself, and she didn’t want Grace cleaning her up—but she also wanted to be far, far away from the site of her failed attempt at dinner. “All right,” she acquiesced at last. “But make sure it’s a damn fine meal, all right? If we’re going to indulge in this foolishness, we’re going to do it right.”

Ellain smiled. “That’s the spirit. All right, you two, go on.”

Grace took Cassandra’s arm and steered her toward the door. Their leader looked down at herself, grimacing at the flour and stains on her robes. “Must I go out like this?” she asked.

“Go to my room,” Ellain called after her. “It’s just across the way, so nobody should see you. Oh, and Grace?”

The healer glanced back over her shoulder. “Yes?”

Ellain studied Cassandra. The morph leader was a little smaller than she was, especially in certain areas, but with a little cinching… “Go through my wardrobe as well. Make sure she wears something flattering.”

The healer gave Cassandra’s arm a sharp tug, pulling her from the bakery before her cry of protest could escape her lips. Ellain turned to Gavin, who was looking at her with a mixture of admiration and trepidation. “Now, then,” she said with a smile, “where shall we begin?”

Cassandra turned as she heard the door creak open. “Cassandra?” Mark called as he stepped through. “Denning said you—”

He fell silent as soon as he saw her. She knew he’d do that, but it didn’t stop her from grimacing. The dress was one of the more colorful ones Ellain owned, though the blues of the fabric were still subdued—something about bright colors not working with a morph’s complexion, or something; Cassandra had stopped listening to Grace about halfway through the laces. Even she had to admit that it looked good on her, though. The sleeves draped elegantly from her arms, the neck was cut tastefully low, and the skirt overlapped itself off to the right—the opening provided freedom of movement without being overly revealing, though Grace had remarked that it showed “just enough skin to spark the imagination.” She’d been smiling entirely too broadly when she said it, too.

That thought brought her attention back to the man before her, and the stunned look on his face. She shrank under his gaze, crossing her arms and looking away with a glower. “Ellain’s idea, not mine,” she said, putting as much venom as she could muster into her voice.

“What?” he said. She refused to look at his face, but could imagine him blinking in surprise. “Oh—the dress? Yes, I… this was her idea, too.”

Cassandra frowned. “What was?”

“This.”

She turned to him—and noticed for the first time what he was wearing. A tight-fitting navy-blue shirt and matching trousers were covered by a long black jacket with red embroidery along the edges. Silver buttons shone at her from one side, almost distracting her from the more subtle stitching on his shirt and trousers. She could see Ellain’s hand in constructing the outfit, but there was nothing amateur about it. Wearing it, he looked almost… regal.

Mark cleared his throat, and started shifting his feet as though uncomfortable. It took her a moment to realize that she was staring at him, just as he’d stared at her moments before. She quickly tamped down her embarrassment as she tore her eyes away— _turnabout is fair play, after all._ “Well,” she said, managing to keep her voice level. “You do look… nice.”

“As do you, milady,” he replied, a little too readily for her. She felt heat rise in her cheeks, and hated herself for it; any red there would be obvious against her pale skin.

She scrambled for something else to talk about. “When, ah… when did she take your measurements?”

He let out a nervous laugh. “I wondered the same thing myself. Denning assures me she hasn’t been breaking into my room while I’m asleep, so she must have sized me up by eye alone.” He looked down at the trousers. “He tells me this is very fashionable in Lycian courts.”

She lifted an eyebrow. “Have I kept you here so long that the fashion has changed?”

“No, but in truth, I never paid much attention to such things. They never seemed very practical.”

She snorted. “Indeed not. If I had to fight in this dress, I’d—” She cut herself off, suddenly uncomfortably aware of the common ground they’d found. “Well,” she huffed, “we aren’t here to play Ellain’s games, are we?”

“No,” Mark said, glancing about the room. “Although, if I might ask… why _are_ we here?”

She winced. “Here” was actually the fort’s meeting room, which would have been used for audiences and planning when it was occupied, but now was mostly neglected. Ellain had claimed it was the only room suitable for such an occasion. Cassandra had hoped Denning would have explained her intentions as he was bringing Mark over, and spare her from having to speak the words herself. Clearly, he was not feeling quite that charitable.

She took a breath as she turned to the table. “I wished to thank you for all your help,” she said, spilling out the words before she could think better of them. “True to your word, you’ve managed to improve nearly every aspect of life in the fort. Obviously, as my hostage, I can offer you very little, but I—well, we—thought you’d at least enjoy a nice dinner.”

As if on cue, the door swung open behind Mark. He stepped out of the way just in time as Ellain swept in, carrying a covered platter— _we have platters?_ —in one hand and linen napkins draped across the other. Behind her, Gavin shot a sour look at Mark as he slid a plate of bread onto the table. Two others followed, one arranging more bowls and platters on the table as the other set two places with plates and cutlery. There was hardly any table space left once they were done. Ellain set her platter in the center and lifted the plate to reveal a still-steaming roast, presenting it with a flourish and a triumphant smile. “Your dinner, milady, sir tactician.” She curtsied, then turned and ushered the others out, casting one last infuriating smile back at Cassandra before sliding the door shut.

Mark cast his gaze over the food spread across the table before resting it on his host. “I, ah, see.” He motioned to the table. “Shall we, then?”

The simple act of eating had been entirely transmuted by a few simple embellishments. The food before them, the clothes they wore, even the place settings were so different from what she was used to—which was usually stew-soaked bread eaten with one hand as the other worked on whatever issue was plaguing her people. There was stew here, but it was redolent with spices she couldn’t even name, and the array of spoons before her made it clear she couldn’t just soak it up with the bread. She looked across the table Mark, forcing a smile. “How is it?” she asked.

He raised a spoon to his lips, taking a careful sip as stew dripped over the sides. He smiled at her as he replaced it in the bowl. “Excellent. Ellain wasn’t exaggerating about her cooking.”

Cassandra listened with half an ear; most of her attention was on his movements, which she mimicked as closely as she could. She thought she must look every bit the dainty noblewoman—or at least a precocious girl pretending to be one. The thought made the corners of her eyes crinkle.

Gentle sipping and chewing were the only noises for a while. She wasn’t particularly comfortable with the silence, but she felt even less comfortable trying to break it. She felt peeved—and a little relieved—when Mark did so instead. “Are you keeping occupied?” he asked.

Cassandra snorted again. _Most unladylike. I’m doing this dress a disservice._ “Just because you’ve taken over organizing the morphs doesn’t mean I don’t have plenty to do. The gold we had saved up has nearly run out; I’ve been talking to some of the others about making crafts to sell.”

“Really?” Mark sat up. “Such as?”

She tilted her head. “We morphs were expected to be self-sufficient, you know. Nergal might leave us in an area for months, even years; we’d have to take care of ourselves. Denning’s not just a soldier, he’s a hunter. And between all of us, we had enough knowledge of agriculture to start the garden.”

“So you’ll be selling hides and vegetables, then?”

She smiled ruefully. “We need everything we grow to keep us fed, I fear. But hides could be an option. And don’t forget, we have a smith.”

“Trask,” Mark said, nodding. “But last I checked, he worked primarily on weapons. Do you think he’ll be able to make tools you can trade as well?”

Her smile turned ironic. “As has been demonstrated to me of late, we all have the power to apply our skills in unexpected ways.”

Mark looked at her for a moment, then returned her smile, raising his goblet to her. She felt triumph in her heart—as well as a strange warmth.

She tried to ignore it. “If Trask can be made a blacksmith, Denning a tanner, and Shel a wheelwright, then we can peddle those wares and earn enough to keep us afloat.” She took a sip from her own goblet; the wine slid down her throat too easily, leaving a sweet aftertaste. “And that is how I’ve been occupying myself.”

He nodded. “That’s good. You strike me as the sort who’d go mad if she had nothing to do.”

She lifted her goblet. “Let’s hope we never have the chance to find out.”

He raised his as well, and they drank together. The wine was velvety on her tongue, and the aftertaste beckoned her back for more. She took the jug and forced herself to pour it slowly, first in her own goblet, then rounding the table to refill his. He was trying not to look up at her while she poured. She wasn’t sure whether or not that fact pleased her.

She returned to her own seat and pursed her lips at the mountain of food still before her. It all smelled wonderful, and she was hungry, but this seemed like a bit much for two people. She took up a knife and began slicing at a slab of roasted meat, frowning as it deformed under the blade. The knife must have been dull. _Dull as my companion,_ she thought, though the joke brought her little joy.

“How is Luther?” Mark asked. “I haven’t seen much of them since…”

Cassandra smirked. “Since they tried to kill you?”

“Well, yes,” he said, eyes down.

She shrugged. “It’s been hard for them. It always is, at first. At least they have so many others to help. Moriel and Durran have begun working with them, adapting them to life here. Deichtine might start taking them out on patrols, if we can get a horse acclimated to them.”

Mark nodded. “That’s good. They seemed so lost.”

“We all were, once.”

“Even you?”

She looked up at him, surprised, before forcing her gaze back to her plate. “Especially me.”

He had the courtesy not to respond to that. They ate in silence for a brief while before he leaned around the table. “Would you like some help?”

She looked up at him, then at the slab of meat that still refused to be sliced. “No,” she said; then again, trying to purge the indignation from her voice, “No, thank you. I’ve got it.”

“All right,” he said, sitting back in his chair. “If you want to borrow my knife, that might work better.”

Cassandra glanced up, and saw that Mark already had his meat cut into tiny cubes. She glared down at her own knife. _Trust Ellain to give him the sharp knife, and me the one that couldn’t cut wet paper._

She went back to sawing, and finally managed to make a deep enough gouge that she was able to pull the chunk off with her fork. She lifted it triumphantly—and then stopped. Unless she cut it into smaller slices, she’d be chewing on that chunk for the next five minutes. She set it down with a sigh. “Since you offered,” she said, “I’d appreciate it.”

His smile was thankfully devoid of mockery as he rose, holding the knife handle-out to her. She looked at it, then at his own plate, then at him. “Actually,” she said, “would you slice it for me?”

He was still a moment, and she feared she’d miscalculated—but then he nodded, walking slowly around the table to stand next to her. He leaned over, carefully keeping his jacket away from her food and her face, and began cutting the meat into neat slices. She looked up at him as he worked, noting the way his lean muscles tensed under Ellain’s needlework, the length of neck exposed above the jacket’s collar. His cheeks grew more and more flushed as he sliced. Was her gaze doing that to him?

She placed a hand on his arm, and he went suddenly rigid. She could feel his blood pulsing just beneath the skin, the perspiration starting to form under her fingers. “You are standing over me,” she said, “holding a knife. You could end your captivity right now.”

Where his cheeks had been reddening, they now went pale. He set the knife down, and slowly pulled away, her fingers trailing along his arm as it slipped from her grasp. He returned to his own seat, and looked at her with a forced smile. “Twice now, you’ve seen me in battle,” he said. “And I’ve seen you. If I’d tried anything, that knife would be in me by now.” He spread his hands. “And if my foolhardy attempt to assassinate you had succeeded, I’d then be in the heart of a fort full of morphs with their beloved leader’s blood on my hands.”

It was true—and the main reason she’d agreed to let him help her. Still… “Don’t you want to escape?” she asked.

He frowned, as though the question wasn’t one he’d considered. “I want my freedom,” he conceded, steepling his fingers. “But escape means breaking the treaty. That means war. And that means a lot of good people are going to die.”

“A lot of good morphs, you mean.”

He said nothing.

She lifted her goblet, taking a long, deep sip. The wine burned in her throat and mind alike. “What do you want, Mark?”

He let out a breath. “I’ve been asking myself the same thing for a while now. I believe, Cassandra, that I want the same thing you do—for you and your morphs to live in peace.”

“Then you wish to remain my prisoner forever.”

“No.” His voice was firm. “I wish for you and Hector to come to an accord, without you feeling you need a hostage to guarantee he honors it. I want you to live in peace, alongside humans.”

“Impossible.”

“You didn’t seem so sure of that when you showed me Nergal’s notebook.”

Cassandra winced at the truth of that. “I suppose you’ve been rubbing off on me,” she sighed. She drowned the obvious innuendo with another sip of wine. “Perhaps it’s not impossible,” she acknowledged. “But for humans to accept us… it seems like a fool’s dream.” She shoved a bite of the meat in her mouth. Damn, but it tasted good.

“I don’t believe that. We—” He cut himself off, suddenly very interested in his fingertips.

She swallowed. “What?”

His eyes slowly lifted to meet hers. “There is a place,” he said quietly. “A secret city, lost to all but a few. It’s called Arcadia, and like your little city of morphs, it is the last home of a people once thought dead. It is a hidden oasis where humans live side-by-side”—he took a deep breath—“with dragons.”

She said nothing. She could think of nothing to say. She drew her goblet toward her, only to discover that she’d already drained it. Mark rose wordlessly, taking the pitcher and refilling it. “I know how it sounds,” he said, voice almost lost among the splash of the wine.

“It sounds ludicrous,” Cassandra replied. “Humans nearly wiped out dragons during the Scouring—just like they nearly wiped us out five years ago.”

He grimaced as he sat back down. “You’re not wrong. But Arcadia is real. We’ve met people who live there—people with both human and dragon parents. And if they can do it…” He spread his hands, eyes almost painfully earnest. “Cassandra, this could be our Arcadia. Humans and morphs, living together in peace.”

She opened her mouth to offer a retort—and found none forthcoming. It sounded perfect. Without the shadow of Ostia looming over them, her people could live in peace, and Mark—this foolish, naïve, brilliant human, this man who had the ear of the ruler of all of Lycia—wanted to make that happen. If only it were possible.

If only…

“Foolishness,” she said, pushing the goblet away. She’d clearly had enough wine. “We can’t live together.”

He looked crestfallen. “Why in Elimine’s name not?”

“Because we aren’t really _living_ at all.” She placed a hand on her chest, the fabric of the dress smooth beneath her palm. “I was created from stolen quintessence, Mark. But without harvesting more, all we have is what’s in us now. What do you think happens when it runs out?”

He went deathly quiet.

“Our days are numbered, Mark, as are we. We can’t bear children; when the last of us dies, the whole of morphkind dies.” Her vision had gone blurry, and when she tried to blink through it, something hot and wet began running down her cheeks. “Don’t try to sell me hope for a future. Don’t think I have a legacy to carry on. Every beat of my heart is an affront to Saint Elimine and all the gods she serves, and when that heart stops beating, when my quintessence runs dry—” She snapped her fingers. “That’s it. We’re done. So, you just be a good little hostage for a few years, and when I drop dead, you can be free, and forget all about me and Denning and every morph you’ve ever met.”

Her throat was full, and her arms were trembling. She gripped the fork tightly, maneuvering another piece of meat into her mouth as slowly as she could manage.

She was almost halfway done with it before Mark spoke again. “May I say something?” He was doing an admirable job of keeping his voice steady, considering the tightness of his face and the wet spots at the corners of his eyes.

She chewed a while longer before swallowing. “I suppose,” she muttered.

He lifted his chin, unflinchingly meeting her gaze. “You’re wrong about one thing, at least. I could never forget you.”

His eyes suddenly seemed unfathomably deep. Her resolve broke, and she took another sip of the wine.

_Nor I you._

She hadn’t the courage to say it aloud.

The fact that the rest of the meal passed in peace was, in Mark’s estimation, a minor miracle itself. Things remained awkward between them, but there were no more impassioned outbursts. In the end, most of the food remained on the table, but each of them agreed they couldn’t possibly eat another bite. Ellain and her helpers soon arrived to clear away the dishes—though Mark could tell that the temptress had immediately picked up on their moods, as she cast a subtle frown at them before the door swung shut.

Cassandra escorted him back to his room. It was well after dark by then; the clouds of that day had parted to allow the silvery moonlight through, and several stars winked down at the two of them as they walked in silence across the fort. It would have been a nice night for stargazing, Mark thought, if things had been different. If the woman at his side had been different.

Then the roof of his building swallowed the stars, and they were at his door a moment later. She pushed it open, and stepped back. He paused, unsure of what else to say. It felt wrong to leave her like this, but what comfort could he offer her after what she’d said?

She drew her shoulders in, the fabric of the dress shifting across her frame. “I… did enjoy myself tonight, Mark. Despite what you may think.” She swallowed. “My goal was to show my gratitude for all your help. I fear I did a poor job of it, but—”

“You needn’t worry,” he said. An impulse took him, and her hand was in his before he knew it. Her eyes widened, but she made no move to pull away. “I enjoyed it too,” he went on. “I hope we can do it again someday.”

It took him a moment to gather his courage before he could do what he needed to. Her hand felt leaden in his as he gently pulled it upward, bending down ever so slowly until his lips just brushed the back of her palm. He’d done this countless time at courtly functions, so there was no reason for him to be nervous.

No reason at all.

She stepped away, her hand sliding noiselessly from his, and studied him with an unreadable expression. She nodded once, then motioned to the door. He stepped through and remained still, not turning to look as the door swung shut. He waited until her footsteps disappeared down the corridor, and finally allowed himself to breathe again as tremors took his body.

It was only when he stopped shaking that he realized she’d taken him the wrong way. This room was not the one he’d woken up in. This one was slightly larger; the table was against a different wall, though it had all the ledgers and notebooks he’d been working on piled on it. Even the secret diary he’d been keeping was still secure in its cubby. What few personal effects Cassandra had allowed him had been moved here, too. It was the same building, certainly; but, thinking back on the turns they’d taken as she led him here, he realized he was on the opposite side of the structure now, far from where Grace and Denning spent their nights.

And, as he moved into the room, something else caught his eye. Not only had she not bolted the door behind him, his new quarters had a window.

His lips opened involuntarily, and when he breathed in, he thought he could still smell Cassandra on the wind.

_I’m not sure whether or not the morphs age. Denning looks much the same as he did five years ago; then again, so do I, at least on my good days. They eat and sleep as humans do, but, if Cassandra’s conclusions are correct, they may not grow old and die as we do. It could be that they will live forever—or, as she believes, the quintessence that gave rise to them may one day give out, and they will simply… stop. It’s a discomfiting thought._

Though it was Hector’s booming baritone that echoed through the great hall, Lyn could hear every word spoken in Mark’s soft voice. He’d always been a quiet one—until he found something that excited him, and then he could go on and on for hours. That was what she heard now; the passion with which he wrote of the morphs was the same she’d heard in his voice when he was speaking about a rousing game of chess, or discovering a draconic artifact, or her future as marchioness of Caelin, or—

“Are you all right?” Eliwood whispered to her.

She gave a start. “What? Oh, yes, of course.” She straightened in her seat, looking around the table. “I’m fine.”

He did not look convinced, but—ever the diplomat—he did not press her.

She looked around the table, re-familiarizing herself with its occupants. The group attending these meetings was still a small one, mostly composed of lords, their closest advisors, scholars, and anyone too stubborn to be kept away. Erk, Canas, and Pent sat together; Serra and Raven sat nearby, flanking where Lucius would have sat, were he still there. Continuing around the table, Eliwood had the greying Marcus and the lovely Isadora at his sides; similarly, Lyn had brought Kent, earnest and handsome as ever, and a visibly-uncomfortable Florina, who was fingering her lavender locks. While Lyn had left Sain and Heath in Caelin, she and Eliwood had each brought an entire company of knights with them, most of whom were outside training and integrating with the Ostian troops in preparation for…

For whatever happened next.

Hector was usually flanked by Oswin and Matthew. Today, however, the aging knight had given up his seat—moving over next to Kent—because the lady of Ostia had put in a rare appearance. Priscilla’s pregnancy had been fraught, but she had apparently grown tired of being kept from the proceedings, especially with so many familiar faces returning to Ostia in the current crisis. Lyn found she could sympathize. Looking over the woman, who somehow managed to remain dainty despite her swelling belly, Lyn found a small flame of admiration burning within her—as well as an unfamiliar ache.

Florina must have sensed her mood, because the small pegasus knight shifted her chair a little closer to Lyn’s.

Hector finished the letter, and put it down, eyes distant. “That’s an option I hadn’t considered,” he admitted. “Simply wait for them to die.”

“If they do die,” Matthew mumbled. “Even Mark admits he doesn’t know. Even _Cassandra_ admits she doesn’t know.”

“Well?” Hector was looking at the scholar’s side of the table.

Exchanging glances with the others, Pent was the one who rose. “As Mark says, the morphs engage in normal— _human_ —bodily functions. Quintessence may be what gave them life, but food is what’s maintaining it. As such, I see no reason to believe they will not age.”

“I agree,” Canas added—though his voice lacked Pent’s confidence. “There’s almost no way to know for sure, though.”

“And we can’t take anything for granted in this situation.” Matthew was sitting sideways in his chair, one arm draped over the back as he stared up at the ceiling. “It’s best to assume the morphs will be alive and kicking for some time to come.”

Hector nodded slowly, his eyes turning to Canas. “Does Bishop Renault know anything about this?”

The scholar shrugged. “He very well might. There’s no way to know unless we find him, however.”

Hector turned next to Serra. “Do you know how that’s coming?”

She sniffed. “How would I? Lucius’s last letter said he was in Badon. Until we hear more, Renault may as well not exist.”

Hector gritted his teeth. “I know that. But if he mentioned anything to you, or if he…"

He trailed off. Serra was meeting her leige’s gaze with uncharacteristic strength. She said and did nothing—but, after a moment, Hector turned away. Lyn nodded to herself, impressed by how far the cleric had come since their first meeting six years ago.

Just weeks after she’d met Mark. Lyn put a hand to her throat, which was suddenly tight.

“All right,” Hector said softly. “Keep working on the information about Cassandra’s process. See if we can learn anything else about Nergal’s past, and if there might be any more of his notes out there. Until Lucius returns, that’s all we can do.” Hector gave the group his usual imperious nod. “All right. Dismissed.”

Lyn rose, feeling her scabbard hit her thigh as she stood. Florina and Kent rose with her, and they started with the group toward the door. Her long strides carried her in front of the milling crowd, and she was out the door before any of them, her two knights in tow. Kent turned off to join the other knights, as Florina scurried up to her side. “At least Mark is still well,” she said.

Lyn nodded. “Yes, thank the sky. Now we just need to make sure he stays that way.”

Florina hesitated. “You don’t really think they’d hurt him, do you?”

“They have to at least be willing to,” Lyn said. “Or he’s no good to them as a hostage.”

“I agree with Florina,” Eliwood’s voice echoed down the hall. Lyn turned to find him striding toward them. “The more time goes on, and the more Mark ingratiates himself, the less likely it seems that they’ll actually hurt him.”

Lyn mustered up a smile for her old friend. “Eliwood. Sorry for running off so quickly.”

“No apologies necessary,” he assured her. “I can tell you’ve a great deal on your mind.” He returned her smile. “I was wondering if you might share some of the burden with me.”

Lyn glanced at Florina, who smiled at her encouragingly. “It’s easy enough to hope,” Lyn said, “but what I said still holds. Mark is only valuable to the morphs if they’re ready to kill him. And from what I’ve heard of this Cassandra woman, she doesn’t seem the type to hold back.”

“No,” Eliwood agreed. “She seems a woman of strong conviction. One who holds great compassion for those she protects, and strong contempt for any who would threaten them.”

“She sounds dangerous,” Lyn murmured.

“She sounds like someone I know.”

Lyn paused, looking down at the sword at her side. One hand unconsciously reached back to touch the tip of her ponytail. “I’m not sure whether I should be offended by that.”

“You know I meant no offense,” Eliwood said softly. “In truth, that’s what gives me hope that she can be reasoned with.”

“You want a lasting peace with her?”

“I do. Each letter we get from Mark only builds my conviction that it’s possible. If the morphs are capable of befriending Mark, why not ally with the rest of us? It certainly does them more good than starting a war with Lycia would.”

Lyn shook her head. “Unless there’s a hidden agenda. Unless this is all a part of some long-term scheme laid down by Nergal years ago, and every action they take is to manipulate Mark.”

Eliwood cocked his head. “Do you believe that?”

“I don’t know what I believe,” she sighed.

They walked in silence for a moment.

“You really think Cassandra and I are similar?” Lyn asked.

“From what I’ve heard.” Eliwood smiled once more. “Seems Mark enjoys the company of strong women.”

Lyn halted in her steps, and Eliwood flushed. “Er… forgive me. I didn’t mean to insinuate…”

“No,” Lyn said, turning to him, trying to ignore her own blush. “But—what you said… do you think he’s developing feelings for her?”

Eliwood’s mouth opened, but no words came out.

“Um.” Florina stepped forward, looking at her boots. “Sorry for interrupting, Lyn, but I sort of thought the same thing. Not about you and Cassandra,” she added quickly, “but about Mark. When he writes about her, you can see there’s respect, and a healthy amount of fear…” She swallowed. “But also some affection.”

Lyn looked at her a long moment, then at Eliwood. He lowered his head, frowning. “If I’m being honest, I thought the same,” he said.

Lyn suddenly felt very small in the hallway.

“She could be manipulating him,” she said, forcing her words out. “She knows how; he’s said as much in his letters.”

Eliwood’s frown deepened. “I thought you didn’t agree with Raven.”

“I don’t. I—” She took a breath. “Cassandra can do whatever she wants. Mark’s _our_ friend. He won’t betray us.”

“No,” Eliwood agreed.

Florina smiled up at them. “Of course not.”

They were almost to the guest chambers Hector and Priscilla had provided for Lyn; Florina, as her closest female retainer, was staying with her. They said their good-byes to Eliwood, who left them, not without some trepidation. Lyn strode into the room and stopped, gazing out the window as Florina closed the door behind them.

Lyn heard the pegasus knight’s soft footsteps approaching her. Florina spoke barely above a whisper. “I know how much Mark meant to you.”

Lyn turned, hoping her smile didn’t look too forced. “He meant as much to me as he does to Eliwood. To Hector.” She took Florina’s hand. “To you.”

Florina’s own smile looked hollow. “But on the plains, when you two were alone…”

_When the boy who’d lost his past and the girl who’d lost her family found each other…_

“So, you agree with Eliwood?” Lyn released Florina’s hand and struck a pose, flexing her muscles. “You think Mark ‘enjoys the company’ of strong women?”

Florina’s laugh was genuine. “You’re terrible, Lyn!”

“What about your husband?” Lyn asked, moving toward the bathchamber. “Does he ‘enjoy’ your company?”

Her answer came in the form of a pillow flung at her head.


	9. Chapter 9

"How long have you been playing?" Mark asked, not bothering to hide his astonishment.

Denning paused his playing, setting the lute in his lap to retune it. "Ten days. Cassandra's not the only one who's found herself with more free time of late." He plucked one of the strings, smiling as the tone echoed down the streets of the fort. "Stringing a lute is a far cry from stringing a bow, but I've grown to enjoy it."

Mark sat down on the doorstep next to Denning, rubbing his hands. A cool breeze was blowing through the fort that evening, portending the coming of autumn. He'd spent the last week taking full advantage of his new freedom; he was still a hostage, but he had much more freedom to come and go from his room as he pleased, so long as he had his escort. Not to mention, being able to see the sun in the morning, or look out at the stars at night, made his heart feel lighter than it had in weeks. And when he thought of Cassandra…

He shook his head, trying to focus on the situation. He, Denning, and Durran had stepped from his building into an impromptu dance lesson. "You're rather good for ten days of practice," he said to Denning, who was now strumming a familiar waltz.

Denning picked up the unspoken question. "No, I wasn't given knowledge of the lute. Ellain might be able to play for the purposes of seduction, but such frivolities would never otherwise be something Nergal considered."

"Then you're simply talented."

"I suppose so," the morph replied with a smirk. He glanced toward the street. "It appears _they_ still need some practice, though."

Moriel shot them a glare before returning her gaze to Durran. Her arm was on his shoulder while hers was on his waist, their other hands clasped together. "Ignore them," she said, starting to move to the beat of Denning's playing again. "Come on, let's try again."

Durran's neck, rigid as it was, still managed to move enough for him to nod in acknowledgment. The two of them resumed their slow waltz as Denning strummed out the melody. Moriel was surprisingly skilled, and settled in to her partner's arms with a smile; as for Durran, Mark couldn't tell whether the giant man was more uncomfortable with the dance, or how close Moriel held him.

It seemed he'd finally stopped stepping on her feet, at least, and the two of them settled into the basic steps for a few minutes. Moriel leaned a little closer to Durran, eyes floating shut. Scarlet spread across his cheeks, but Denning kept strumming, so he kept dancing. The archer exchanged a knowing glance with Mark. "It seems Grace and I may not be the only couple for long," he murmured.

Mark had to suppress a grin. In truth, Denning didn't know how right he was. He'd been observing the morphs during his daily constitutionals, and while Denning and Grace were the most demonstrative pair in the fort, they were far from the only ones he'd seen exhibiting an attraction. Gavin, obviously, was taken with Ellain; Mark wasn't sure why he'd fallen for her when the other men seemed able to resist her charms, but at least that meant he didn't face any competition. He wasn't sure when Moriel had developed feelings for Durran, but he seemed to be starting to reciprocate. Haymer had been finding more and more excuses to drop by Shel's carpentry shop of late, and among the guards, Amora and Bennet frequently traded shifts with others to be on duty together. Even Ronic seemed to linger at Trask's smithy these days. The morphs definitely felt attraction to one another; it just seemed to have taken five years for most of them to act on it.

For some reason, Mark suddenly felt very lonely.

"Speaking of which," he said, grasping at the chance to change the subject, "how is Grace?"

Denning did not falter in his playing, but his expression fell to a glower. "Still the same," he said. "Whatever's affecting her is far from debilitating, but there's no denying it's there. She's still nauseous frequently, yet she's eating more than ever. She seems to be moody—" He cut off, looking at Mark. "Well, I suppose that's not something you care to know," he muttered.

Mark grimaced; perhaps this wasn't a good subject to change to. "I'm sorry, Denning. Is there anything I can do?"

Denning smiled. "Organize a battle plan against her disease, perhaps?"

He meant it in jest, but his words hollowed Mark's chest.

"Sorry," Denning murmured. The smile turned sad. "I appreciate the offer, but there's little anyone can do. If morphs carrying a library's worth of healing knowledge can't solve this puzzle, I doubt a human tactician can." He fell silent for a moment, brows drawing slowly together. "Although…"

Mark straightened. "What? Is there—"

"What's going on?"

The voice came from directly behind Mark; once he dislodged his heart from his throat, he turned to find himself looking at the drawn face of a tall, slender morph. He swallowed, and not quietly. "Luther?"

Denning stood, motioning to Moriel and Durran, who paid no attention to the newcomer. "They're dancing," he said to Luther, not missing a beat in the music. "Search your memories, and you'll understand."

Luther's face screwed up in concentration. "It's much harder," they said after a moment. "Before, everything came to me. Now…"

"Give it time," Denning soothed. "You'll get better with practice."

Luther's expression relaxed, and they cast one last look at the dancing couple before turning to Mark. "Yes, I'm Luther," they said. "You are Mark?"

"That's right," the tactician said, pleased to find his voice even. "It's good to see you again."

"Is it?" The morph scratched their head. "Last time you saw me was when I attacked you."

Mark found himself without a response. "Yes," he managed at length. "I suppose it was."

Luther looked at him, then over at Denning, who cleared his throat. "Oh," Luther said, blinking as if surprised. "I'm sorry. For attacking you."

Mark blew out a soft breath. "Thank you."

"It is good that I failed to kill you," Luther went on. "Though I would have likely succeeded, were I not exhausted from—"

"That's plenty," Denning said, words quick but not curt. "Thank you, Luther."

The morph nodded once, and walked away down the street, almost cutting between Moriel and Durran on their way. Mark exchanged a glance with Denning. "They're still adjusting," the morph said quietly. "Give it time."

Mark remembered what Cassandra had told him at the dinner. _We were all lost, once._ "Were you like that at first?" he asked softly.

"No." Denning shook his head. "I was far, _far_ worse."

The dance lesson lasted the rest of the hour before Moriel finally admitted they'd had enough for one day. Durran offered her his arm with hesitation; she took it with none. The large morph was on Mark's escort duty that day, which meant Mark and Denning had to accompany them as he escorted her back to her room. If she'd been hoping for a farewell kiss, it was clear she wasn't going to get one; Durran would have been embarrassed enough doing so without the audience. Still, she smiled at him, and he smiled back with only a little reluctance. Mark couldn't help but feel a little warmth in his heart at the sight.

As Moriel entered her building and the door swung shut behind her, Denning turned to Mark. He'd been curiously quiet on the way over, but now he spoke abruptly. "Mark, would you take a look at her? Please?"

Mark blinked in surprise. "Who, Moriel? I've been looking at her this whole time." He winced, and looked at Durran. "That is—"

"No," Denning said, sounding irritated. "Grace. I think that—" He shook his head, and motioned to Durran, who looked as confused as Mark felt. "It's difficult to put into words. I'll explain on the way—at least, I'll try."

Cassandra felt she should have been surprised when Mark came into the infirmary. But, as he strode out of the entrance hall between Denning and Durran, she realized she'd been half-expecting him all along. He'd insinuated himself into nearly every other aspect of her life, after all; why not show up here? Granted, they'd barely spoken to each other over the past week—neither was sure what to say after that candlelit evening, so it was back to business as usual, him making reports to her, and her accepting them in awkward silence and sending him on his way, trying not to smile at his retreating back. But it somehow felt right that he be here, now, when everyone was looking to her for strength.

Mark, in contrast, missed a step upon seeing her. She grimaced at the sight as he caught himself on the doorframe. "Cassandra?" he asked, looking at her like she was a purple cow. "What are you doing here?"

She did not bother with a wry smile. "Visiting a friend," she said. She motioned to Grace, who was lying on a bed squarely in the center of the long stone room that served as the fort's infirmary. Poorly-lit, but well-ventilated, the room and the beds lining its walls saw pleasingly little use—morphs did not tend to get sick, and injuries were few and far between.

Which made whatever was happening to Grace that much harder to understand.

Peleus and a crowd of other healers were discussing her condition at the far side of the room, while Cassandra and Ellain stood beside Grace's bed, the temptress having joined her for this visit. Cassandra remembered she was holding the young healer's hand, and she gave it a gentle squeeze. Mark's gaze, she noticed, had honed in on the gesture of affection. The scowl she gave him was enough to turn it away once more.

"Mark. Durran." Grace struggled to sit up. "I'm sorry. I told Denning—"

"Easy, dear," Ellain purred, pushing down gently on her shoulder. "You need to rest, remember?"

"I remember," Grace replied, rolling her eyes; but she relented, and lay back down. She looked back at the men. "I told Denning he didn't need to visit me, not when he's on duty."

"I know," the archer said, stepping forward. Cassandra was struck by the pitiable expression on his face. "I asked Mark to come. I thought—well, I was hoping he might take a look at you."

Cassandra felt herself stiffen; across the room, the conversation among the healers came to a slow halt. "I beg your pardon?" Grace said, blinking.

"This wasn't my idea," Mark said hurriedly.

Denning shot him a glare. "No. It was mine—though something Mark said made me think of it." He met Grace's eyes uncertainly. "He was thinking a human healer might have a different perspective on your condition than ours."

Cassandra could feel tension from the healers behind her, though she also heard someone mutter "That makes sense." She looked at Mark, and let out a groan. "So, you thought, 'we may not have any human healers, but at least we have a human,' is that it?"

Denning cringed at her tone. "Yes," he muttered. He sat down on the foot of the bed, looking earnestly at his wife. "I know it seems pointless, but I thought…"

Grace was eyeing Mark uncomfortably. "I understand, dear, but…"

As they conferred, Cassandra moved forward. Mark didn't seem to realize she was beside him until she grabbed his arm. She smirked for an instant at his start, then started pulling him away. "Can I talk to you?" Her tone made it clear there was only one answer.

He fell in, not resisting her grip, and she towed him partway down the row of beds. They were far enough from Denning and the others that they wouldn't be overheard if they whispered. "What are you doing here?" she hissed.

Mark held up his hands defensively. "I told you, this was Denning's idea, not mine!"

"Which you agreed to; otherwise, he wouldn't have brought you here." She shook her head. "You don't really think you'll be able to find something they couldn't, do you?" She motioned to the healers.

Mark cast a quick look at Denning, and lowered his voice further still. "Of course not. I don't think he does, either. It's just…" He turned to the bed. "Look at him, Cassandra."

Part of her blanched at the idea of being told what to do by this human; the rest of her was already doing it. Denning was standing at the side of his wife's bed, one hand on hers, the other fingering his bowstring. His brows were down, his mouth was pulled into a frown, and his lips trembled ever-so-slightly between words.

"He's afraid," she whispered.

Mark nodded. "I don't think I'll find a damn thing, if I'm being honest." He glanced at Peleus. "They know more about healing than I ever will. But if taking a look makes Denning feel better, even a little…"

Cassandra found herself fingering her braid. "Why do you care?" Her voice was so soft, even she could barely hear it.

Mark frowned at her. "What?"

She looked up at him. "Why do you care how Denning feels?"

"Because he's my friend."

She found herself shocked, not only by the answer, but by its immediacy. "He's your _guard_. He's helping to keep you hostage."

"He also advocates for me every chance he gets, goes out of his way to make me more comfortable, and spoke to me at a time when nobody else would. He wasn't ordered to do it, and it wasn't something Nergal put in him—he did it out of the kindness of his heart."

Her own heart throbbed at the word.

"And now he's asking me to do something for him," Mark said, looking back at the morph couple. "I don't think I can do it, no—but I'll be damned if I'm not going to try."

She slowly released her braid, letting it swing free to her back. "Am… I your friend, too?"

He hesitated—which pained her, for no reason she could name. "If you want to be."

She forced her eyes off of him and back to Grace. "Well," she murmured, "I suppose it can't hurt for you to take a look."

Mark's shoulders slumped with relief. "No, I don't think it can."

"Depending on how close a look you take," she added with a smirk.

Somehow, his embarrassed expression was even more satisfying than when she'd been in his room. "I'm just going to ask about her symptoms!" he said quickly, voice rising a little too far above a whisper. 'I wasn't going to do anything untoward to—" He cut off, studying her expression, and his face slowly twisted into a scowl. "Do you enjoy teasing me, Lady Cassandra?"

She didn't bother to hide her grin. "Oh, immensely." She motioned to the bed. "Well, if Denning can convince Grace, I suppose she's all yours."

Mark sucked in air through gritted teeth, but if he was going to say something more, he thought better of it. He kept one eye on her as he walked back to the bed, joining in the conversation with Denning and Grace as he pulled a notebook and a piece of charcoal from his satchel. The healers moved surreptitiously closer to listen in; Durran was leaning against the wall by the door, looking bored, and Ellain was—

She frowned. Ellain was peering at her with an opaque expression. "What?" she said, a little more harshly than she'd intended.

Ellain hesitated—something that rarely ever happened. Cassandra felt something slip inside her, and when she spoke again, her voice was much softer. "What is it, Ellain?"

"I just—" She looked across the room at the tactician. "After the dinner last week, you and he seemed so uncomfortable, and it was all my fault, and—"

"Don't blame yourself for that," Cassandra interrupted. "He and I, we…" She shrugged. "I just wasn't sure what to do after that."

"But it was my idea," Ellain persisted. "We need him on our side, Cassandra, if we're going to survive this, and I thought the dinner might help with that, but this _stupid_ thing inside me turned what was supposed to be a _diplomatic_ dinner into a _romantic_ one, and you…" She trailed off.

"We… what?"

She shook her head. "I don't know."

Cassandra studied her for a moment, then followed her gaze to Mark's back.

_If you want to be._

"I don't know, either," she confessed.

"How long did you say the cramps have been happening?" Mark asked, tapping a piece of charcoal on the edge of his notebook.

"About six weeks," Grace repeated, eyeing him. "But the nausea began about four weeks ago."

Mark nodded, trying not to think of what else Grace and Denning had been up to at that time. "And you say you've put on weight?"

It was a question that would have rankled most human woman, but Grace merely nodded. "Yes. And I get…" She shifted on the bed, looking over at her husband. "I get strange cravings."

Mark paused, looking over his notes so far. He hadn't been expecting to find anything, but her description did lend itself to an idea, one that morph healers might overlook—albeit for a very good reason.

He shut the notebook and motioned to Cassandra. She exchanged an uncertain glance with Ellain before slowly approaching him, arms still crossed over her chest. "Yes?"

He glanced from her to Grace. "How do you know," he said quietly, "that you can't have children?"

The women both stiffened. "Because we can't," Cassandra said, her voice returning to its customary growl.

Mark bit at the inside of his cheek. "All right," he said slowly, "but how do you—"

Denning put a hand on his shoulder. "Are you sure you wish to pursue this?" he said; there was a note of danger in his voice Mark had not heard since they first captured him.

The tactician swallowed down his fears, and nodded. "You asked me to give you a change in perspective. These are questions a morph might not even thing to ask."

"With good reason." Any and all patience had left Grace's tone. "We know because Nergal suppressed the necessary biological functions. It's in his notes—and in our bodies. Males and females alike are completely infertile. So, if you're thinking of suggesting I might be pregnant, know that it is physically impossible, and leave it at that."

She turned away in a bit of a huff; even Denning was looking away, jaw tight. Apparently, this was a touchy subject. Perhaps it was time to abandon this line of—

"Well," Ellain said softly, "that's not _entirely_ true."

Mark twitched; he hadn't heard her approach, so he didn't know she was standing at his side until she spoke. He saw Cassandra quickly hiding her smile behind a hand as she rubbed at her face. "What do you mean?" Grace asked, tilting her head.

Ellain rubbed at her neck; Mark had never seen the smooth temptress look so uncomfortable. "Nergal _had_ suppressed those functions, of course. But shortly after Cassandra freed us, most of the women in the fort had their… monthlies… start," she explained. "As the only one who knew what was going on, I found myself helping most of them through it. Including—"

"All right, that's enough," Cassandra said quickly, motioning her to silence. "Anyway, what does that have to do with what's going on with Grace?"

Mark gaped at her. "You're joking, right?"

"I'm afraid she's not," Ellain said softly. "Not all of us were given the same knowledge, dear. I only know these things because I was expected to live among humans for an extended time. Cassandra may know how to seduce a man in a pinch"—she politely ignored Mark's blush—"but few here understand some of the finer points of women's health." She shrugged. "And, human or morph, there are some things of which you just don't speak."

"Well, speak of it now," Cassandra growled. "What do monthlies have to do with having children?"

So Ellain did speak of it. And, as she went through her explanation, Mark began to realize that his own discomfort was nothing compared to that of the morphs listening to her. Poor Denning looked like he might faint.

When Ellain was finished, she turned to Grace. "When did you last have your monthlies, dear?" she asked gently.

"About three months ago," Grace replied. "Why?"

Ellain's lips parted, and she looked at Mark. "I didn't think it was possible," she whispered. "None of us did. Even after our monthlies started, I never dreamed we could…"

"It was Cassandra," Mark said, too excited now to be uncomfortable. "It must have been. Her freeing your minds somehow freed your bodies as well—undid whatever Nergal was using to keep you from…"

"This is ridiculous!" Grace was almost shouting now as she sat up in the bed, ignoring the protests of those around her. "Peleus, get over here. Hand me the testing staff."

Peleus swept across the room to the row of staves opposite Grace's bed; he took a small, asymmetrically-designed staff from the rack, and carried it to Grace's side, almost shoving past Mark to get there. He handed it to her, and she set to work immediately, removing the gem from the staff and muttering an incantation into it. As she spoke, the gem glowed an almost sickly rust-red color. It went dull again only when she finished speaking. "This staff is used to test for a number of conditions," she explained to the others.

"I've never heard of a staff like that," Mark said.

Grace glared at him. "That's because we created it."

"Oh."

Peleus shifted. "It was never intended to test for… this."

"Which is why I've modified it." Grace reattached the gem and held the staff to her belly. "Once this glows red, we'll know I'm not pregnant."

A moment later, the staff tip glowed blue.

Peleus and Grace simply stared at it; the rest of them looked about in confusion. "What does _that_ mean?" Cassandra asked.

"It's a positive," Grace whispered. "It means that I'm—"

She choked off the last word, hands going to her mouth. A single tear ran down her cheek before Denning flew over to her, smothering her in his embrace. He was trembling—with fear or excitement, it was impossible to say. "You're pregnant," he whispered. "We're going to have a child."

And then Cassandra's hand was on Mark's arm, and he was being yanked from the infirmary just as it exploded into activity. Half the morph healers were arguing about why this was impossible; the other half marched to the bookshelves and set about learning midwifery. The last thing Mark saw before the door swung shut behind them was Denning and Grace, as still as the eye of a storm, holding each other and shaking with silent tears.

They emerged into the last glimmer of twilight, yet still Cassandra pulled him along like a broken cart. He turned to her, but whatever protest he was about to make died in his throat. Her wide eyes were set on the path before her, her lips parted to accommodate her raspy breaths. She looked just as shocked as Grace had—more so, even.

"I'm sorry," he managed at length. It was all he could think to say.

She stopped short; he almost collided with her. "Sorry?" she echoed, not turning to look at him. "You're _sorry?"_

He felt his skin grow cold. "I—"

She spun—and seized him in an embrace. He stumbled back, managed to regain his balance as her cheek pressed into her chest, her arms squeezing around his torso. "Gods, Mark," she whispered. "This changes _everything._ "

He looked down at her, unsure of what to do with his hands. He ultimately elected to hold them aloft; it looked and felt awkward, but he didn't dare touch her, even now. "Is that… good?" he asked.

She shook her head, rubbing her face against his shirt. "Yes. No. I don't know." She held him a little tighter, threatening his ribs. "I thought morphkind would end with us—that when we expired, so too would our race. But now…" She finally pulled away, holding him at arms' length—and she was smiling. "We have a _future,_ Mark. This can go on, even after we die."

His mouth felt dry as he carefully put his hands on her shoulders. She didn't tense up or pull away. He almost wished she would; that, at least, he could understand. "So that is a good thing."

Her face fell. "But when Lord Hector hears of this, how will he react? Will this make us seem more human to him, or—" She looked back at the infirmary door. "Will it make us more of a threat?"

"More of a—?"

"If we can have children, if our race can carry on, then the time to wipe us out is now—before we can propagate." She lowered her eyes. "It's what Nergal would do."

Without thinking, he slid his hands down her arms, placing them over hers. "Hector's not like Nergal."

She looked up at him, and he was nearly struck down by the sadness in her eyes. "It's what _I_ would do," she whispered.

That, he did not have an answer to.

"Maybe he doesn't have to hear of it," he said. "I don't have to put it in my letter."

She shook her head. "Yes, you do. It's your duty, and I promised that I wouldn't interfere with it." Her fingers seemed tiny as they slipped between his. "I keep my promises, Mark."

It was dark by now. Cricket song echoed to them over the fort walls as the cool of night started to settle in. Cassandra drew a little closer, eyes searching his. "If I let you go," she whispered, "what will he do?"

His breath caught in his throat. "I don't know," he confessed.

She blinked, and rubbed her thumb over his hand. "Do you still want me to let you go?"

The moon illuminated her face, glistening off her ruby-red lips. "I… don't know."

It was impossible to say how long they remained like that before the distant slam of a door snapped them out of their reverie. They both turned at Durran's stumbling approach; he stopped a few paces away, saluting Cassandra. "Apologies," he rumbled. "I had difficulty extricating myself from crowd." He looked from one to the other, then down at their clasped hands. "I am… interrupting?"

Cassandra smiled. "Not at all." She released Mark's hands, nodding to him. "I have a lot to think about. Durran will escort you back to your room."

He nodded, taking a few steps back. "I'm sorry," he said again.

Her smile was distressingly warm. "Don't be," she whispered. "I don't know what the future holds, Mark—but, thanks to you, I know we _have_ a future."

_I fear there was little of note to report this week. My work as administrator continues to keep me busy and to ingratiate me to the morphs. I have grown as comfortable here as a hostage can be. Perhaps, in time, the fort and Ostia can further pursue diplomatic relations._

"He's read the letter a hundred times since the meeting ended," Priscilla said between sips of tea. "Trying to read whatever it is Mark didn't write."

Eliwood set down his own cup on the tea table at the center of her receiving room. "It's been six weeks since Mark was taken," he said softly. "And Hector still blames himself?"

Priscilla shook her head. "No, Hector blames Cassandra. Only Matthew blames himself."

"That doesn't sound like Matthew." Lyn stirred her cup, looking pensively out the window.

"He and Mark had grown rather close over the last few years," Priscilla pointed out.

"That _really_ doesn't sound like Matthew." She set her cup next to Eliwood's. "But it does sound like Mark."

The receiving room was well-lit and well-furnished. Hector had grumbled at the extravagance of so many couches in one room, not to mention making cushions for all of them, but the grumbling had ceased when she'd shown him the end result. Lyn and Eliwood reclined comfortably, each on their own couch within easy reach of the tea table. Most of the others were tucked away in the side of the room—the wood was not so heavy that the castle guards couldn't move them about as needed. Priscilla would have tried herself, but everyone seemed to jump to alarm at the thought of her exerting herself. Apparently becoming pregnant had turned her to porcelain.

Priscilla took a slow breath, looking at the marquess and marchioness before her. "I'm working on arranging a hunt," she said. "It's not so late in the year that we won't be able to find a stag, and gods know my husband could use something to keep his mind off Mark." She looked over at Lyn. "We all could, I think."

"That's a grand idea, Priscilla," Eliwood said. "We could all use a little diversion."

"Indeed." Lyn met her gaze with stony detachment. "Though we should not remain distracted from our goal for too long."

Priscilla let her gaze fall to the teacup in her hands. "Our goal of rescuing Mark?"

"Of course." Lyn took a slow, quiet sip.

Priscilla let out a sigh—a most ladylike one. "That's the other thing I wished to discuss with you," she said. "It might be time to face the idea that this situation may not be temporary."

Silence greeted her statement, and she tried not to wince at the expressions on their faces. "You don't think we _can_ rescue Mark," Lyn said, voice low.

"I think," Priscilla began deliberately, "that rulers sometimes demand hostages from their vassals to ensure loyalty. Obviously, Cassandra is no ruler," she said before either could protest, "but the concept is the same. So long as she holds Mark, she knows we won't attack; and so long as we don't attack, she'll keep Mark safe."

Lyn shook her head. "I wish I could believe that. Yes, if this were an ordinary situation, Cassandra would have every reason to keep Mark safe. But the morph leaders we fought against were masters of manipulation—Ephidel brought Lycia to the brink of civil war, and Sonia brought the entire Black Fang under Nergal's control."

"From what we've seen, Cassandra's nothing like them," Eliwood said softly.

"But we can't know that for sure," Lyn insisted. "That's my point. How do we know Cassandra isn't using Mark—using _all_ of us?"

Priscilla frowned, stirring her cup. "We don't," she said softly. "I'm not trying to argue that. I'm just saying rescuing Mark may be neither possible nor wise." She shook her head. "Yet Lord Hector is willing to do whatever it takes to get him back—even if it means sacrificing Ostian lives. I think we all know Mark would never want that."

Lyn slumped against her couch. "No," she sighed, "he wouldn't."

Priscilla forced a smile. "I miss him too," she said. "He was a boon to Ostia, and a dear friend. Just… please, consider what I have said."

"We will," Eliwood promised. Lyn only nodded.

She looked between the two of them. "In the meantime, you two will, of course, be accompanying my husband on the hunt, correct?"

Eliwood smiled. "Wouldn't miss it."

"It would be nice to get out for a bit," Lyn agreed. "Just spend time together, not as lords, but as friends."

Priscilla felt a weight lift from her shoulders upon hearing those words. Lyn had been closer to Mark than any of them, and she'd been struggling the most with his capture. Cheering her up was nearly as important as cheering up Hector.

Lyn nodded to Priscilla. "I'm sorry you can't join us."

"Not as sorry as I am," Priscilla sighed, rubbing her belly. "I'm sure this child will be a delight when grown, but in the meantime, it's quite a nuisance."

Eliwood grimaced. "I'm afraid the 'nuisance' part doesn't end with birth."

Priscilla smiled at him. "And here I thought Rebecca was doing all the work."

She was rewarded with silence from Eliwood—and a rare smile from Lyn.


	10. Chapter 10

Something was different. No—everything was different.

Mark paused on the doorstep, turning to Denning. "What's going on?" he asked slowly.

The morph gave him a transparent look. "What do you mean?"

"Don't do that." Mark scowled. He looked around to the morphs in the street surrounding them; some loitered on doorsteps, some walked arm-in-arm down the street. A dry breeze brought sounds of laughter from across the fort to their ears. "Something's happened, I can feel it."

Denning smiled, and unslung his lute from his back. He began strumming idly as he walked into the street, returning the nods and smiles he collected from those he passed. After a moment, Mark started after him, his frown deepening. "This isn't cute when Matthew does it, either," he called.

Denning stopped and turned, a huge grin crossing his face. "She told them."

Mark gritted his teeth. "Both those pronouns are missing antecedents."

"Apologies," Denning said with a mock bow. "I've only known how to speak for five years, after all."

"There are five-year-olds less obstinate than you're being right now."

Denning's smile remained infuriatingly fast. "Let me try again." He motioned with the lute neck to the morphs around them. "She told them that Grace is pregnant."

Mark's ribs suddenly seemed a great cathedral, in which his heartbeat was a meager echo. "Cassandra?"

"That is the subject."

"The morphs?"

"The direct object, yes. I'm pleased you're able to keep up with a five-year-old."

One hand ran through Mark's hair, while the other hung to one side, seemingly unsure of what to do with itself. It had been nearly a week since their astonishing discovery, a week for which all present had been sworn to silence. There'd been no question that Cassandra would have to tell everyone eventually; even if a pregnancy could be hidden, the end result could not. Grace was determined to carry the child to term, and armed with an unparalleled knowledge of medicine and magical healing, she was like to accomplish that goal. But making the news public carried its own share of dangers. The baby might bring the ire of Ostia—did that mean the morphs would see it as a threat?

From the looks on the faces around him, that was not the case. It felt like a weight he hadn't been aware of was suddenly lifted from the shoulders of every morph in the fort. There were couples now—several he'd suspected, and many he'd never had guessed. It seemed the news had caused a surge of amorous behavior. But it wasn't just that; nearly everyone seemed to carry a smile. As Cassandra had said, they had a future now, where they'd never dared to hope for one before.

He let out a small laugh. "I can _feel_ it," he whispered. "There's an… optimism in the air. I haven't felt like this since—" He broke off, turning down the street.

"Since before you were captured," Denning surmised.

Mark nodded.

Denning studied him for a moment, then turned away, plucking his lute. "Come along, Mark. We've got to get you your exercise."

The tactician hurried after him. "It's not just us, is it? I thought Cassandra ordered you to always keep two guards on me."

"She did." He glanced about with a mock frown on his face. "Our third should have met us by know. Clearly she's been slacking off."

"She?"

"Or," came an all-too-familiar voice, "she's busy with the billion other things she has to do to keep this fort running."

Cassandra was already next to them by the time Mark turned around, nodding at him with her usual smirk. "Good morning."

"Good morning," he echoed dumbly. "You're our third?"

"Our noble lady has seen fit to descend from on high and mill about with us commoners," Denning said. He danced back out of range of Cassandra's swat.

"What he means to say," Cassandra said, shooting Denning a glare, "is that I took a few hours off."

Mark blinked. "Why?"

She grinned—not just smiled, but actually _grinned_. "Because it's a lovely day."

It was, at that. Despite the aging year, the sun was shining down on them as leaves blown in on the wind raced each other down the streets. None of which compared to the smiles on the morphs' faces.

Mark motioned to a passing couple—belatedly realizing it was Moriel and Durran. "I see they took the news well."

Cassandra's smile broadened as she looked out over the people. "They did. Seems I was worried over nothing. Finding out your kind isn't doomed to extinction would make almost anyone happy."

"Yes," Mark demurred, following her gaze to the sea of smiling faces churning about them. "But still…" He lowered his voice as he turned to her. "Aren't you worried about Ostia?"

She shrugged. "I am. But we'll deal with them in time."

He raised an eyebrow, and she cut him off before he could speak. "Diplomatically. We will deal with them _diplomatically_ in time."

"Oh." He felt more relieved than he cared to admit. "Does that mean—"

"Don't worry so much about what everything _means_ ," she said, rolling her eyes. "Look around you. Everyone else has caught spring fever in the middle of autumn, and here you are, thinking like a tactician."

He exchanged a glance with Denning. "I am a tactician."

"Well, stop tactician-ing for a moment and have some fun, will you?" She motioned to the crowd. "Come on. Let's go say hi."

"To whom?" Mark asked.

"To who cares?"

She grabbed his arm and yanked before he could even squeak out a protest. It was easy to forget that Cassandra was shorter than he was, taking three strides to his two as she towed him along. They caught up to Moriel and Durran, sticking around long enough for the women to have a hurried conversation as the men stared at each other, trying to think of something to say. "So," Mark eventually managed.

"Hi," Durran replied.

And then Cassandra grabbed his arm again, and they were off. She had an animated chat with Shel before Haymer interrupted, then with an unusually-happy Deichtine before spotting someone else she wanted to chat with. They even stopped for a word with Peleus, who was perhaps the only one in the fort without a grin on his face, probably due to being the one responsible for caring for the pregnant Grace and her overprotective husband.

Mark managed to keep up with the conversations—and even get a word or two in edgewise—but only just. The odd thing was, Cassandra wasn't talking about the morphs' duties or the fort's needs; she was asking them how they were, or what they'd been up to. Making small talk. Some were as surprised as Mark, but most answered her with delight. Denning tailed them at first, but he'd vanished into the crowd by their third conversation. Mark had never seen Cassandra like this before. Then again, he'd never seen the _fort_ like this before, period.

"And how about you?" she said as she tugged him along toward the smithy. "How have you been, Mark?"

"How have I—?" He had to think a moment. "I've been well. Worried, but well."

"Worried?" She stopped suddenly, and he almost ran into her as she turned to face him. "About what?"

"Well—about you," he admitted. "Last week, everything seemed so—"

She laughed. "Worried about _me!_ Mark, haven't you learned by now that I can handle myself?"

"You were working yourself to death when you first captured me," Mark reminded her.

She waved a dismissive hand. Mark had to marvel at her; when she wasn't suffering under the weight of her people's destiny, Cassandra resembled nothing so much as a playful girl. "All in the past now. Thanks in part to you," she admitted. "But I assume you're not worried anymore?"

"No," he replied. "You certainly do seem… happy."

She went suddenly still; he barely had time to consider if he'd said something wrong before her smile turned soft. "Happy. Yes… I guess I am. Maybe for the first time in..." She shrugged. "Well, ever, I suppose."

It would later occur to Mark that her 'happiness' was a construct, just like the rest of her. At the time, though, all he could do was smile back. "That's good," he said. "I'm… glad." It seemed a feeble thing to say, but it was all his tongue would provide.

She cocked her head, and her smile broadened once more. "So, there isn't anything I can do to make your captivity more pleasant?" she asked. "Nothing I can provide? Something to read, perhaps?"

He gave her a sidelong look; there was something mischievous in her tone. "I suppose," he said slowly. "I've always enjoyed a good book."

She turned aside, and pulled out a leather-bound volume she'd concealed within her cloak. "Well, perhaps you'll enjoy this one." She presented the cover, smiling guilelessly. "It's called 'A History of Wyvern Riding.' I've just finished it."

His mouth couldn't have been open any wider than his eyes were. "You—that—I—" He finally gathered enough of his wits, reaching for the tome. "You little minx! You had my bag all along, didn't you?"

She made as if to jerk the book away, but relented, grinning, as his hand closed around it. "I did," she admitted, letting him take the volume. "I'm sorry I haven't given it back before now. I had to make sure there was nothing dangerous in there, and after that…" she shrugged. "I was just waiting for the right time to return it to you."

He tucked the book into his satchel, eyeing her. "And that time is now?"

"It is." She jerked her head back the way they'd come. "I asked Denning to leave it in your room. It'll be waiting on your desk—minus the book, that is." She paused, and a hint of embarrassment entered her expression. "I'm… sorry it took so long."

Mark blinked. "Well… thank you," he said softly. He'd given up hope of ever seeing that bag again—the last link to his old life in Ostia. Now…

"Don't mention it," Cassandra said, turning and starting down the street again. "Like I said, I've finished reading it. Rather dry, I must say. I'm enjoying this new book much more." She withdrew another, much thinner, book from her cloak—not truly a book, even, since it had no cover. Just a large sheath of bound paper. She held it out in front of her, and cleared her throat. "'Day seven,'" she read aloud.

Mark felt his throat tighten.

"'I've set aside some of the paper the morphs have provided for me in order to keep a diary,'" she went on. "'I hope it will help me—'"

She twisted gracefully out of the way as he lunged for her, the wyvern riding volume falling forgotten to the ground. "How did you find that?" he hissed.

She smirked. "We gave you that desk, Mark. Did you think we wouldn't notice you'd hidden this underneath?" She lifted the book again. "'These morphs are nothing like the creatures who fought under Nergal. They have their own wants and needs, hopes and fears. Real or simulated, who can say? Does it matter?'" She batted her eyelashes at Mark. "Aw, what a sweet thing to say!"

He leapt at her again—not that he had a prayer of catching her. All the grace she brought to her swordplay, she now used to stay just out of his reach, dancing away even as she continued to read. "'Day ten. I've met a morph woman named Ellain.' Oh, this ought to be good!" She scanned over the next few lines, then turned to him with a frown. "It's not good. How do you make being the hostage of mystical creatures sound so boring?"

Mark collected himself, and jumped forward again. She was gone before he could blink, darting off just far enough for him to try again. He bit his lip; he had to get that diary away from her, before…

Before what? There was nothing in there that she didn't know already. He'd always known his secret diary might be discovered, after all, and hadn't put anything too sensitive in there for that reason. It was more a tool to help keep him sane than a true repository of secrets.

And Cassandra… if she'd wanted to read the diary, she'd have done so already. She very well might have, in fact. This little show was for his benefit. And the way she kept dancing just out his reach—she _wanted_ him to try and snatch it back.

She was teasing him.

And—he realized with a start—he was _enjoying_ it.

He was grinning the next time he lunged forward, twisting around to try and catch her. She spun out of the way without even looking up from the diary. "You don't even talk about the dress Ellain was wearing that day. Her neckline plunged so deep, you could have caught fish with it."

"You should have read the diary I kept in Ostia," Mark shot back. They emerged into a large street, drawing surprised looks from the surrounding morphs. Neither took notice. "Marchioness Araphen once wore a dress many swore was held up by magic alone."

"Oooh, scandalous." She turned a page. "Let's see what you thought of _my_ dress, shall we?"

Mark's smile fell. Perhaps there was _one_ thing he didn't want her reading.

"'Day thirty.' You can't think of a less dry way to begin your entries? 'I'm not entirely sure how to describe what has transpired,' good heavens, I'm falling asleep—ah! Here we go!" She held the diary closer. "'Ellain not only provided my own dress clothes, but—'"

Her mistake was in holding the pages too close to her face, and Mark took full advantage. He rushed forward as she was distracted, and actually managed to wrap his fingers around her wrist before she twisted away, squealing. She was off like an arrow, clutching the haphazard diary to her chest, but he was hot on her heels. She was more agile and fit, but Mark's height advantage let him keep pace with her as they tore down the street. Morphs looked at them with shock, but any worry melted away when they saw the foolish grins on both their faces. Mark came to realize that he was laughing—they both were, giggling like children as he chased her through the fort. He couldn't remember ever feeling this way, but it was the smile on Cassandra's face that made his heart soar.

She swerved suddenly, rushing through the door of a building—her building. Another mistake, for there was only one exit. He rushed in after her, just managing to catch a glimpse of her vanishing up the stairs. He took them two at a time, and darted through the open door to her room. He looked around quickly, realizing almost too late that she was no longer before him; he caught a hint of motion out of the corner of his eye, and spun just in time to see her slipping out from behind the door, still grinning like a lunatic as she brandished his diary.

It was sheer luck that allowed him to move quickly enough to slam the door shut, cutting off her escape. Letting out another squeal of laughter, she dashed toward the window—but he caught her leg, and she both tumbled to the rug. He was upon her a moment later, using the sheer weight of his body to keep her down. Laughter pealed from both of them as he wrestled with her for the diary. He pinned one of her arms, and finally managed to pry the papers from the other. "Ah-ha!" he shouted, holding them aloft like a trophy. "Let this be a lesson to—"

He cut off the moment he saw Cassandra's face. Her lips were parted and her eyes were wide, fixed on him with something intense and unreadable. Her chest was heaving with heavy breaths, but other than that, she wasn't moving. With awareness of this came the realization of where exactly they were—on the floor of her bedchamber with him atop her, her arm pinned above her head, the layers of clothing that separated their bodies suddenly feeling sheer. If he just leaned down a little—

Mark dropped the papers, scrambling backwards as he tried to get off of her without making things any worse. The giddiness of moments before had evaporated, leaving horror in its wake. "I'm sorry," he whispered in a hollow voice. "I didn't mean to—"

She surged up at him; in less than a heartbeat, her arms were around his back, her chest was pressing into his, and their lips were locked together. He caught himself before he fell on top of her, but he barely noticed. The moment her mouth touched his, his entire body seemed to blossom with light, filling every vein, every nerve, every pore. His nose reveled in her scent, his lips thrilled against hers, and he could barely hear her soft sighs over the blood rushing in his ears. Every sense was full of Cassandra, and he couldn't get enough; only his eyes, initially wide with shock, drifted shut as she held him tighter.

It might have been seconds or hours later when she released him, falling onto the rug. Their heavy breathing and racing hearts had little to do with their mad dash through the fort, and they stared into each other's eyes as if they were truly seeing each other for the first time. "I'm sorry," Cassandra said at last, her voice meek. "I didn't realize until just now how much I needed this." A hand moved from his back to gently rub his cheek. "How much I needed you."

She didn't give him a chance to respond before pulling herself up to him again—not that he trusted his tongue to work if she had. His arms trembled before finally giving way, and he collapsed atop her, rolling to one side. She completed the roll, and his back pressed into the soft carpet as she perched gracefully atop him. Her fingers slid down his arms before interlacing with his own, pinning his hands above his head just as he'd done to her moments before. It took Mark a moment to realize she had straddled him, and he automatically pushed up against her. She smiled into their kiss, but said nothing. Long moments passed as they gave in to their passions, each filling up their world with the other, hearts pounding in unison.

She finally pulled away again; her grip on his hands tightened as she stared down at him, suddenly unsure. "Listen," she said. "Right now, you and I are equals. Tell me to stop, and I will stop."

He did not tell her to stop.

Long seconds passed. "I need to hear you say it," she whispered.

"Yes," Mark whispered back. He reached up to stroke her cheek, just as she'd done to him moments before. "I need you, too."

Her grin returned as she swooped down on him once more. There was a rustle of cloth as her cloak was tossed aside, and a moment later, she started tugging at his. He arched his back so she could slide the cloth out from underneath him. She rose just long enough to pull her blouse over her head, and practically tore off his shirt. She moistened her lips and took a steadying breath as she reached for his trousers—

They barely heard the footsteps rushing up the stairs, but the pounding on the door pierced the haze of passion clouding their senses. "Cassandra!" Ellain's voice rang through the door. "Are you in there?"

Cassandra shrieked and leapt off of Mark, diving for their discarded clothes. The room spun around the tactician as he tried to rise at least as far as his elbows, his heart now pounding more from shock than from desire. He'd barely started to roll to his feet when the door opened, Ellain rushing in. "Cassandra, there's—"

She cut off as she got a good look at them. "Oh," she whispered, a gloved hand going to her mouth. "Oh, my…"

"This couldn't have waited?!" Cassandra roared, struggling with her blouse, which suddenly seemed to have entirely too many sleeves. She threw Mark's shirt at him, hitting him square in the face.

Ellain's eyes flicked over their half-nude bodies once more before shutting. When they reopened, they were gazing intently at Cassandra. "No," she said, "it couldn't."

The two of them paused in their dressing. "What is it?" Cassandra asked. "What's happened?"

"It's Denning," Ellain said. "He—"

She cut off as another set of footfalls echoed up the stairwell. A moment later, Denning appeared in the doorway beside Ellain; the woman jerked back as he collapsed against the doorframe, panting heavily.

"Denning!" Mark rushed forward, forgetting that his shirt was only over one shoulder. "What's wrong?"

Golden eyes lifted to meet his. "This is a message from Lord Nergal," the morph rasped. "'I await you at the Dread Isle.' This is a message from Lord Nergal. 'I await you at the Dread Isle.' This is a message from…"

_It's taken a month and a half; slow by some standards, amazingly fast by others. But I believe the morphs and I have developed a rapport. Cassandra continues to insult and tease me every chance she gets, but when I can get her to be serious, she seems open to the idea of an alliance. My Lord, I do not wish to speak too soon—but, barring any major disasters, I believe peace between humans and morphs may be within our grasp._

"Peace," Hector said softly, closing the letter and placing it gently on Priscilla's desk. "Can it really be possible?"

"It all depends on the people involved," Priscilla called from the bed. "This Cassandra seems like a remarkable woman. And you are a remarkable man."

Hector smiled at the compliment. "Thank you, dearest." He rose from the desk, leaving the letter lying by the inkwell as he crossed the room and sat down on the bed beside her, brushing aside the hanging posters. "But if I'm being honest, I wish Uther was here."

Her shoulders slid downward. "You've been wishing that for the last five years, darling."

"I know. Yet still I wish. He'd know what to do."

She shook her head. "You don't know that he would. He was as human as you are, Hector."

He didn't respond. His eyes returned to the letter—and the stack of others behind it. Seven weeks now, Mark had been sending these missives. Seven short weeks—less than two months!—and he'd gone from never seeing the light of day to being an important administrator in the fort, from never warranting an audience with Cassandra to speaking of her with respect.

"He speaks of them like they're almost human," he whispered.

It took his wife a long moment to respond. "Perhaps they're not as different from us as we believed."

He looked at her again. Her eyes were uncomfortable, seeking the window on the far wall rather than meeting his gaze. He took her hand without thinking of it. "Are you unwell?"

She shook her head. "Not aside from carrying an entirely too heavy baby around with me, no."

He smiled, hoping that was the right reaction. "But you're worried?"

"About you," she confirmed. She rubbed her thumb on his hand. "You've been consumed by Mark's captivity. I know how you feel, but it's been seven weeks, and he's still alive. You have other duties. Other…"

"Passions," he finished. He looked down at their intertwined hands. Had he really once gone whole days without speaking to this woman? Without even noticing her beauty and grace? He couldn't imagine why it had taken so long for him to fall for her. Nor could he imagine how she could have fallen for him.

She smiled. "Yes." She finally turned toward him. "This isn't a burden you need shoulder alone."

He sighed, letting his fingers slip from hers. He rose and stepped slowly to the window. "This is about more than just Mark," he said. "These morphs could be an invading army on our doorstep. Or"—he shrugged—"they could be exactly what they claim to. Refugees, just wanting to live in peace."

He heard Priscilla shifting on the bed behind him. "If Mark is to be believed, that peace could be within reach."

"Do you think we can believe him?"

"Yes."

Something inside him uncoiled at her answer. "Truly?"

"Mark isn't one to be led astray. If he trusts Cassandra, then I believe she is worthy of that trust."

He laid a hand on the windowsill. The chamber was on the east side of the castle, facing out over most of Lycia. Facing away from the morph fort. "What if they are human?" he whispered.

"Hector?"

"If Mark wasn't there…" He stepped back. "I think I'd have wiped them out already."

There was a rustling behind him, a few heavy footsteps, and Priscilla laid her hand on his shoulder. "You didn't," she whispered. "Right now, that's all that matters."

He lowered his eyes. "Uther would know what to do."

"You _do_ know what to do." She laid her head on his shoulder. "You just have to convince yourself of it."


	11. Chapter 11

_Day 51. Today started in wonder—and ended in terror. We can only hope that what's befallen Denning is an isolated case, but if not… I must keep this to my personal diary for now. I trust Lord Hector, but if he learns the morphs are reverting like this, he may have no choice but to attack._

Mark ignored Gavin's glare as he paced back and forth in front of the infirmary door. Morphs passed by on occasion, pretending not to glance their way, and Mark pretended not to hear their whispers. "I should be in there," he said at last.

Gavin shifted slightly, knocking some dust from the wall he leaned against. "And do what?" he asked.

"Help."

"How?"

The tactician kicked at a clump of dirt. "Somehow."

Gavin shook his head. "All you'd do is get in the way. If they needed you, they would've asked for you."

It galled Mark to admit that Gavin was right. "Can't you go in?" he asked, turning pleading eyes on the morph. "Just see what's going on?"

Gavin's eyes narrowed. "No."

"Why not?"

"Because all I'd do is get in the way, too." His arms tightened across his chest. "We're both useless, human."

The tactician eyed him a moment, then turned away. It had been over an hour since they'd rushed Denning over here, yet Mark still couldn't escape the memory of Denning's rasping words and the fear in the morphs' eyes. Worse, he still felt his blood rushing through his body, still felt his heart pounding, still felt Cassandra's lips on his—

He shook his head, trying to chase the feeling away. "I should be in there," he said again.

A hand gripped his shoulder, and a chill shot up his spine. He hadn't even heard Gavin move. Angry golden eyes went from Mark's face to the ground. "He's my friend too, Mark," Gavin whispered. "I'm just as worried as you. And the fact that there isn't a damn thing I can do about it is—"

He choked on the words, and his eyes filled with tears. Mark stood still as stone for a moment, then placed his own hand on Gavin's shoulder in turn. "I'm sorry," he said.

Gavin looked up, removed his hand, and pushed Mark's away—gently. "We're doing everything we can. Both of us. Remember that."

The door opened, and just as quickly as Gavin had appeared at Mark's side, he was back against the wall. Light spilled out around Grace's diminutive form as she slunk out of the infirmary. The healer seemed reduced somehow—eroded. Her eyes did not leave the ground.

Gavin touched her shoulder as Mark rushed up the steps. "How is he?" they asked in near unison.

"Physically, he's fine," Grace said. Her voice was like sand piling up beneath a sieve. "He's talked himself near hoarse, but with water and rest, he'll recover. Unless he starts in on that thrice-damned Dread Isle message again." She pinched the bridge of her nose. "Where the hell is Peleus? He's supposed to be on duty."

Mark hesitated, unsure of what to say. Gavin glanced back at him. "What about his mind?"

Her tiny frame trembled. "I don't know. I don't know a damn thing. Cassandra managed to get him speaking normally again, but without knowing what caused this, or whether it'll happen again—" Her words morphed into a sob, and she turned away.

Mark stepped forward, reaching for her. "Grace, it'll be all—"

She pushed his hand away. "You shouldn't have killed Nergal."

His blood went cold. "What?"

She met his eyes at last, and the gold of her irises was run through with red. "We deserved that chance."

She turned and swept off into the fort, fists clenched at her sides. Eavesdropping morphs scrambled to get out of the way. Mark made to follow her, but Gavin's hand on his shoulder stopped him. "You'll do more harm than good," the morph growled. "Leave her be."

Bile rose in Mark's throat, but he couldn't deny the truth of Gavin's words. The morph turned him toward the door, and gave him a gentle push. "Go on," he said.

Mark took a step forward—then paused, looking back. "You're not coming?"

Gavin looked away. "I'll—visit him later."

Mark studied him for a moment, then turned his back on the morph and climbed the steps. The door was still hanging open; he shut it to keep out the cold. The room was empty except for Denning, reclined on a bed and clutching a flask of water. The morph archer smiled at his approach. "About time," he croaked.

The bedframe creaked under Mark's weight as he sat down. "You'll have to forgive my tardiness."

"Will I?" Denning turned away and coughed. "Never mind. You're forgiven."

Mark's eyes flicked across the empty infirmary. He opened his mouth, but hesitated.

"Cassandra left already," Denning said, motioning to the back door. "She wanted to talk to Ellain about what happened." He glanced at the bed opposite Mark. "She… sends her apologies."

Mark nodded, trying to ignore the pang of disappointment. "What _did_ happen, exactly?" he asked.

Denning merely shrugged. "I suppose I had a relapse of sorts. 'Old habits die hard,' and all that." He smiled weakly. Like his wife, he seemed drained.

Mark took a deep breath. "Denning," he said softly, "this could be serious."

The morph's smile flickered for a moment. "Yes. It could be. I hope it isn't. But it could be."

Mark realized his hands were shaking. He forced them still.

Denning motioned to the back door. "But I have faith in our fearless leader. She freed me of this message once; she can do it again."

 _Except if she had_ truly _freed you of the message, she wouldn't need to do it again._ Mark kept the pessimistic thought to himself, instead asking, "You really think so?"

"Of course," Denning answered, smile turning sly. "She's quite a woman—though I don't need to tell you that."

"She is," Mark demurred. After a moment, he blinked and looked up. "I mean—what?"

Denning was grinning. "Nergal hijacked my tongue, not my eyes," he said. "I saw you and Cassandra pulling your clothes on—and there are few sights in the world that could make Ellain blush like that."

Mark quickly stood up, turning away from the archer. "I don't suppose Grace keeps anything in here I could use to poison myself, does she?"

"Sit down," Denning laughed, before breaking into a fit of coughing. "Oof. Don't make me laugh. My throat still hurts." He shook his head as Mark sat back down. "I know you don't like speaking of sexual matters, but I thought it'd be better when you were the subject of discussion."

"It's not better," Mark replied. "It's worse. It's _significantly_ worse."

"I apologize, then."

The tactician took a breath, looking to the door through which Cassandra had left without a word to him. "Denning, I'm not… I don't even know what this is. Everything happened so quickly, we didn't have a chance to talk about…" He trailed off as the memories took him again. Had Cassandra always smelled that good?

"It seems clear enough to me," Denning said, settling back onto his bed. "Where it's going is another matter entirely, but for now, you two have found something in each other." He smiled. "My only regret is Ellain and I interrupted before you—"

He broke off, coughing once more. Mark leapt to his feet before remembering the flask sitting on Denning's lap. He gripped the morph's hands in his own, carefully guiding the flask to Denning's mouth and helping him drink once the coughing subsided. "I'm sorry," Mark said as the morph gulped down water. "I shouldn't be making you talk this much."

Denning shook his head and wiped off his mouth. "Please. I'd rather be talking about you two than talking about the message from Lord Nergal. 'I await you at the Dread Isle.' This is a—"

His hand went to his mouth as his eyes widened in shock. Mark backed away from the bed, flask hanging forgotten in his fingers. "I'll get Cassandra," he said, turning to go.

"No!" Denning shouted, and Mark felt a tug on his shirt. He turned to find the archer clinging to him, gazing up with terror in his eyes. "No," he whispered. "Please—don't leave me."

No sound but their breaths could be heard, until Mark sat back down on the bed, putting his hands over Denning's. "It's all right," he whispered. "I won't."

Ellain had somehow managed to find the time and materials to decorate her quarters, despite them not being significantly more luxurious than anyone else's. A plush carpet, Sacaen suncatchers in the window, even a few paintings hanging on the wall. Any other day, Cassandra would have been shaking her head at the excess. Now, though, she had more important things to worry about.

"I was on my way to visit Grace," Ellain explained. She placed a kettle over the fire before making her way to her sofa. "I saw Denning talking to Peleus; I asked if he wasn't supposed to be guarding Mark, and he told me how you two had left him behind. He looked like nothing so much as a lost puppy, so I invited him to escort me to the infirmary. We were passing Shel's shop when he stumbled. I thought nothing of it at first, but he kept having trouble walking—his legs couldn't move properly."

Cassandra nodded, scribbling down in her ledger. "So he lost motor control before the message began."

"I wouldn't say 'lost' so much as 'had interrupted.' He came back up after a moment. When I asked him if he was all right, he responded with…" Her eyes flicked down. "Well, you know."

"It may be related," Cassandra mused. "Denning's entire purpose was to deliver that message. It could be tied to his other functions as well."

Ellain shivered. "All these years later, and that man's shadow still looms over us."

The quill pressed harder into the page. "Not if I have anything to say about it."

Ellain's eyes followed the scribbling quill. "Cassandra," she whispered, "I'm so sorry. For this to happen now, of all times…"

"It had to be now," Cassandra murmured. "I was starting to feel…" She paused in her notes. "Happy."

Despite everything, Ellain smiled at her. "I must admit, if it weren't for our current situation, I'd be grinning my ears off. You and Mark—"

"Shh!" Cassandra surged forward, finger on her lips. "Not so loud! You want the entire fort to know?!"

The temptress blinked. "Well… yes. I think everyone would be delighted to know you've found someone who makes you happy." She eyed Cassandra a moment. "Did you wish to keep it secret?"

"Of course." Though even as she said it, she couldn't quite explain why.

Ellain pursed her lips. "Because I may have mentioned it to a few people."

Cassandra felt herself stiffen. "Who?"

"Just a few. Quite a few. Many." She smiled. "Sorry."

Cassandra groaned, letting the quill slide from her fingers. "Ellain, this isn't—I don't even know where things are going with him," she mumbled.

"It seemed pretty clear to me."

"Ellain—"

"They were going to the bed."

"Ellain!"

"What?" She shrugged. "You're the one who had him half-naked on your floor. I'm just sorry I interrupted before things got further."

Cassandra stood up and marched to the fireplace. That way, she could at least blame her red cheeks on the heat.

A moment later, she felt Ellain's hand on her shoulder. "I'm sorry," the temptress said in a surprisingly genuine tone. "I don't mean to tease. I'm happy for you—truly."

Cassandra watched the flames dancing. Like children in the summertime—children she thought she'd be able to see someday. "How did you know," she whispered, "that Denning and Grace's feelings for each other were real?"

The crackle of the flames filled the space until Ellain's reply. "Do you mean real as in 'not artificial?' Or real as in 'not fake?'"

Cassandra glanced back at her. "What's the difference?"

Ellain was watching the fire as well. " _We_ are artificial, dear," she whispered. "So all our feelings must be, too. But does that mean they don't exist?"

Cassandra ran her hand along the opposite arm as she turned back to the flames. "I don't know."

"Yes, you do." Ellain chuckled. "Denning once told me that he could no more ignore his feelings for Grace than he could the air he breathes. Does that sound real to you?"

The kettle began to whistle, and Ellain made to grab it off the hook. "I don't really have time for tea," Cassandra said.

"Make time." Ellain swept over to the table and filled a pot with the boiling water. "You can't take care of Denning if you don't take care of yourself."

A protest rose in Cassandra's throat, but died before reaching her mouth. She went to the table, crossing paths with Ellain, who returned the kettle to the hearth. She began counting in her head to give the tea enough time to steep. "You're not… well…" She risked a glance at the temptress. "Jealous?"

Ellain paused, hand still on the kettle's handle, staring at Cassandra before bursting out in a peal of laughter. " _Jealous?_ Of—you? And Mark?" She shook her head, wiping a tear from her eye. "Dear Cassandra, did you think I truly had any designs on him?"

Cassandra pursed her lips, turning back to the pot. "You certainly seemed to when you first met."

The laughter subsided. "Yes, but that's just how I am, dear. When I see a human man, my old habits resurface. I certainly never would have actually taken him to bed." She returned to the sofa, shaking her head. "You should have seen me on our supply runs. Sometimes I'd barely make it out of town before someone tried to drag me into a tavern—or worse."

Cassandra's mental count reached what she hoped was enough time. She began pouring the tea. "It's lucky for them they didn't get the chance," she muttered.

Ellain nodded, brushing the topic aside with a flick of her hair. "And as I said, I couldn't be happier for you. You've always stood alone, bearing the burden of our survival on your shoulders. But over the last few weeks, you've started sharing that burden with Mark." She accepted the cup Cassandra offered her and raised it to her lips, hiding her smirk behind a sip of tea. "And now it seems you're ready to share… other things with him, as well."

Cassandra refused to allow Ellain to embarrass her further—whatever her burning cheeks might indicate.

She took the chair opposite Ellain, and they sipped their tea in silence for a minute. It was a surprisingly good blend, the smoothness of white with the strength of green. "May I tell you something?" Ellain asked.

Cassandra lowered her cup, nodding. "Of course."

Ellain set her cup down, folding her hands in her lap. She looked down at them as if her satin gloves were covered in blood. "After you freed me," she murmured, "I pledged never again to take a man to my bed."

Cassandra was glad she'd set her own cup down already. "You—what?"

"Or to let one take me to bed. Or a woman, for that matter. I just—" She closed her eyes, taking a calming breath. "Nergal made me solely to seduce and manipulate. We were all simply tools to him, yet I was less even than that. When you freed me—when I realized what that freedom meant, I—" She cut off again, and Cassandra saw a tear glinting in the firelight as it rolled down her face. "Forgive me," the temptress—the _woman_ —whispered.

Cassandra was at her side in a heartbeat, handing her a handkerchief. "There is nothing to forgive," she whispered back.

She returned to her own seat as Ellain dabbed her eyes. She waited for the other woman to regain her composure before asking, "Does Gavin know all this?"

Ellain grimaced. "Not all of it, no. He knows that whatever happens between us, it will never lead to consummation."

"Yet he pursues you still."

"He stands by me still. There's a difference." She shook her head. "I know not whether he holds out hope of bedding me one day, or if he's accepted that things will remain chaste between us. Either way, he never makes me feel pressured or obligated." She slowly lowered the cup, gaze shifting to the window. "Perhaps that's why I still allow him to be near me. Spending time with a man who likes me, yet expects nothing… it's nice, in its own way."

Cassandra followed her gaze. The stars were beginning to emerge as the daylight faded. The morning had brought a sense of joy and renewed purpose to the fort. Now, with Denning in the infirmary, all was uncertainty. She closed her eyes.

"Do you think," Ellain began softly, picking up her cup once more, "this could happen again?"

Cassandra's eyes blinked open, focusing on the other woman. "You mean what's happening to Denning."

"It only takes a brief meeting with a man for me to start manipulating him," Ellain said, eyes reflecting the stars. "The things Nergal put in me are still there. What if they take control?" She turned back to her leader, tears welling once more. "I can't go back to how I was, Cassandra. If I do, I'll…"

Despite the friction between them—or, perhaps, because of it—Cassandra had always looked to Ellain for strength. Now, seeing her with eyes turned down, body closed off, hands clutching her teacup as though it were her last hope at life, she saw the other woman's vulnerabilities. She saw _all_ their vulnerabilities.

She picked up her cup, rose from her seat, rounded the table, and slid onto the sofa next to Ellain. "I'll stop it," she said firmly. "We'll stop it."

_Somehow._

Ellain looked at her for a moment, teacup trembling in her hand. She set it down and leaned over, resting her head on Cassandra's shoulder. "Thank you," she whispered.

As with Grace, something seemed to have been drained from Gavin when he emerged from the infirmary after speaking to Denning. He hadn't even thought twice about leaving Mark alone outside. Mark tried not to be obvious in his glances as Gavin escorted him back to his room, but he was sure the morph noticed. "He'll be all right, Gavin," he offered at last, weakly. "I'm sure he will."

Gavin paused in the middle of the way. He looked up at the clouds, nostrils flaring in the evening air. "What makes you so sure?"

"Cassandra will find a way."

"She found a way before." The morph shook his head. "Yet here we are."

He continued on, motioning for Mark to follow. The tactician obeyed, weighed down by the notion that he should say something—anything—to make it better. But there was nothing to be said, and he knew it.

Still, he was now trailing after Gavin, where before, the morph would have insisted on keeping him in front. That wasn't nothing.

Gavin slowed in his steps. "Mark?"

"Yes?"

"Did Cassandra force you?"

"Force me?"

Gavin glanced over his shoulder at him; his expression looked like he was walking on caltrops. "Ellain told me about you two."

"Oh." Mark faltered as a blush reached his cheeks. " _Oh._ I, uh, don't really like to talk about—"

"You think I do?" Gavin snorted. His face softened. "But she is your captor."

Mark's hands balled into fists. "And that means she shouldn't be fraternizing with her hostage?"

He expected a scowl, but none came. "It means you may have felt unable to turn her down."

Mark tilted his head. "Are you worried about her?" he asked slowly. "Or me?"

Gavin turned away.

Mark took a breath, willing his hackles down. "She sought my consent, and I granted it."

"But—"

"If I'd said 'no,' she'd have let me walk away. I'm certain of that."

"You can't know for sure."

"No," Mark admitted. "But you know Cassandra. What do you think?"

Gavin said nothing. But the tension seemed to slip from his stride.

They rounded a corner, and Gavin suddenly halted, Mark nearly tripping over him. The tactician looked over the morph's shoulder and suppressed a gasp. Cassandra stood there, eyeing the two of them, fingers dancing over the hilt of her sword. "Good evening," she muttered.

"Good evening," Gavin replied. Good thing, too; Mark couldn't find his tongue.

She nodded, eyeing them. Mark had never seen her looking this uncertain, not even when she'd faced down an army. "Gavin," she began, "I'd like to—"

"I'll go," he said softly. Before she could respond, he had melted into the shadows.

The autumn air suddenly seemed to grow much warmer.

Cassandra was still a moment before motioning to him. He stepped forward, and she fell in beside him. Her eyes remained steadfast on the road, yet he couldn't stop stealing glances at her. Morphs went about their business all around them—the ebullient atmosphere of this morning had faded, but there was still work to be done. Still, conversations ended and gazes lingered whenever Mark and Cassandra approached. Most didn't even have the courtesy to be subtle about it.

Mark took a breath, letting the cool air flow into his lungs. "I know we haven't had a chance to—"

"I love you."

Mark almost lost his footing. "I—what?"

"I know," Cassandra said, running her hands through her hair. "I know it sounds insane. I'm a morph. You're my hostage. I've known you for less than two months. But—" She stopped in her tracks, turning to face him. "But we've spent almost every day of that time together, and you've gone from being my hostage to being my helper and—last week, you said I could be your friend. And there was the dinner, and you helped Denning, and you just made the cutest expression every time I embarrassed you, and—"

She broke off, turning to face him. Every morph in the street was watching; it felt like the entire fort was leaning in. "When we were in my room today, I couldn't pretend any more. I knew I had to kiss you, or I'd regret it for the rest of my life. It's not fair to you, but—"

He placed a hand on her back; she flinched away, but then pulled closer. "Cassandra," he whispered, "I love you, too."

Her eyes seemed to glow golden in the night as they lifted to meet his. "You do?"

"I do. And maybe you're right, maybe that's insane. But it's how I feel, and I can't pretend otherwise."

She wrung her hands. "You can't ignore it," she whispered, "any more than you can ignore the air you breathe."

He smiled. "That's lovely. And exactly right."

"It's Denning's." She lowered her eyes, screwing them shut. "But," she said, "I need to deal with this now."

He felt a coldness in his throat. "What?"

"Denning. What's wrong with him, I—" She began to tremble; the listening morphs all seemed to be holding their breath. "I couldn't fix it, Mark. Not totally. Maybe I can, but it'll take time. And if it's happening to him, it could be happening to others, and if that happens—"

"It won't," he said, trying to sound reassuring.

"You don't know that," she muttered.

He winced. "You're right. I'm sorry, I just wanted to—"

"I know. And I appreciate it. But it's not doing me or Denning any good." She leaned forward, resting her head against his chest. He could feel her trembling. "I can't afford to be distracted, Mark. Not right now." Her shoulders slumped. "I'm… sorry."

He let his hands slowly rise, wrapping one around her shoulders and one around her waist. "I understand," he whispered.

Her trembling subsided. "You do?"

"I do." He gave her a gentle squeeze. "Whether you need me there, or need me not there—I'll do whatever I can to help."

She remained in his arms for a good minute before pulling away. Starlight danced in her eyes as she gazed up at him, and then pulled herself up. The kiss was far briefer and less fiery than their last one—but it was no less intoxicating. Around them, Mark could hear a few surprised gasps, a few polite coughs, and more than a few delighted squeals.

When she pulled away, she slid a hand down his chest, leaning in close to him. "When I do fix this, you and I are picking up where we left off this morning. Understood?"

He wasn't sure why she bothered whispering; from the way his face went red, every morph there would be able to tell what she was saying. "Understood," he replied.

She nodded, struggling to control her smile. "All right," she said. "Let's see where Gavin wandered off to. We both have work to do."

"Matthew?"

The spy hissed out a curse before turning slowly to smile at Serra. "Yes, milady?"

She frowned, rubbing sleep from her eyes. The candle she held cast shadows dancing down the hall. "Milady? You never call me that. What's going on? Why are you skulking about out here at night?"

 _Clearly not skulking well enough, if you could hear me._ "Couldn't sleep. Thought I'd take a look around the castle, make sure everything's all right." He moved toward her, footsteps echoing loudly down the corridor, interrupting the still of the night. "I didn't mean to wake you."

"Obviously not." She drew back a little, clutching her nightrobe close. "So, _is_ everything all right?"

"It is indeed," he replied, still keeping that smile plastered on his face. "Why don't you go back to bed?"

"Why not," she murmured. She took a step back, still peering at him in the dark.

_She trusted me, once._

Matthew shook off the thought. "Mila—Sister Serra. You know Lucius will be all right."

She stiffened, holding the candle higher. "Don't presume to know my mind, Matthew."

"It's not hard when you wear your heart on your sleeve." He cursed himself for getting his hackles up.

"As opposed to you, who lacks a heart altogether?" She snorted. "When's the last time you ever felt anything for anyone, Matthew?"

_I felt for you._

"You're trying to save Mark," she went on, saving him from answering, "simply because you're the one who lost him in the first place. Or, if you really expect me to believe it's not a matter of personal pride, then you're trying to recover an asset to Ostia. You don't care about him. You haven't cared about anyone since—"

Thank the gods, she stopped before speaking the name. Color crept out of her face, already pale in the candlelight. "Oh, Matthew," she breathed. "I didn't mean—"

"It's all right." His voice felt hollow in his own mouth.

"But I—"

"Go to sleep, Serra. I'm sorry I disturbed you."

He turned and resumed his walk down the hall, praying she wouldn't follow. Chastisement or apology—he couldn't take either from her, not now. He'd chosen his duty. She'd chosen Lucius.

And she was right about him. She was right about everything.

_Leila…_

"Quite a woman you got there, Matt."

Matthew held up a hand to the shadow that had spoken, glancing back over his shoulder. There was no sign of Serra, neither flickering candlelight nor pink-haired silhouette. "She's spoken for," he whispered back.

"Pity." A figure melted out of the shadow, taking on the form of a tall man in a red cloak. "When you meet the right one, you can't let her slip away. I learned that lesson almost too late."

"Your _report,_ Gorlois."

The man sighed dramatically, though he still could barely be heard. He was actually a little older than Matthew, but ever since Hector had caught Gorlois looting the castle years before, he'd answered faithfully to the spymaster, working across Elibe in the name of Ostian interests. Rather, of _Lycian_ interests—though the two were, theoretically, the same. Gorlois fingered his dagger as he spoke "Your messages were all delivered," he began. "Bern, Ilia, Sacae—they all got them, and our men are safely back at their posts."

Matthew arched an eyebrow. "What about Nabata?"

Gorlois gave him a steely look. "What _about_ Nabata?"

Were it anyone else, Matthew would have done something about the insubordination. "Good enough," he muttered, still feeling empty. It was exactly what he'd wanted—exactly what was needed. "Given that the deliveries were to occur on the thirteenth…"

"The recipients could be arriving any day now," Gorlois finished. "Assuming they're feeling charitable enough to come."

"Then it's time to move things forward."

Matthew turned, then stopped at the feeling of a hand on his shoulder. Gorlois took a slow breath before he spoke. "You remember I swore allegiance to Hector, right?"

The hidden meaning was clear to Matthew. "We're doing this _for_ Hector."

"Without telling him about it."

Matthew shrugged. "That's why I'm spymaster. I make decisions so he doesn't have to."

_Who are you trying to convince, Matthew? Gorlois, or yourself?_

Either way, Gorlois released him. Matthew stepped back, regarding the man. "Did any of your men read the messages?" he asked.

The corner of Gorlois's mouth quirked up. "Of course not. That would be dishonest."

"A couple of thieves are the last people who should be talking about honesty."

"I'm reformed. And you were just pretending to be a thief. That's doubly dishonest."

Matthew almost laughed. The need for quiet and the gravity of the situation ensured he didn't. "Good night, Gorlois."

The other man raised an eyebrow. "You're really not going to tell me what this is about?"

Matthew paused. Gorlois was a good man—or as close to a good man as you could find in this business. But nobody outside of their army from five years ago knew about Nergal, his morphs, or how close they'd come to crushing Elibe. They'd kept it a secret all this time, and Matthew wasn't going to risk changing that now.

"You'll know soon enough." Or he wouldn't. In the end, it didn't matter.

All that mattered was what Hector did—now that Matthew had forced his hand.


	12. Chapter 12

_Day 54. We hoped whatever was happening to Denning was happening to him alone. We hoped in vain._

Mark blinked awake to the sound of frantic pounding on his door. “Mark!” a feminine voice shouted through the wood. “Mark, are you in there?”

He struggled to his feet and crossed the room, wiping sleep from his eyes. “Yes, I’m here,” he called back. He searched his sleep-addled mind for some memory of the voice. “Moriel?”

The knocking ceased. “May I come in?”

He almost reminded her the door was locked from the outside, before remembering it hadn’t been for over two weeks. He tried to shake the cobwebs from his head as he pulled the door open. Moriel stood before him, wringing her hands. “What is it?” Mark asked.

She looked to the floor. “Mark, have you seen Durran?”

The tactician frowned, pushing his still-waking brain to remember. “Not since yesterday. I saw him on patrol in the afternoon. Why?”

“You didn’t assign him any other tasks?”

He shook his head. “Moriel, what’s going on?

She gripped her hands tighter. “I—I invited him over for dinner,” she said, speaking the words as though confessing a sin. “When he never showed, I thought he just wasn’t interested, but he wasn’t in his room this morning, either, and I’m starting to worry—”

Mark was fully awake now. He risked placing a hand on her shoulder. “All right,” he said soothingly. “All right. Have you asked anyone else?”

“Yes, but nobody could tell me anything. I hoped you might have…” She didn’t move, wringing her hands tighter. “What if he—?”

“There’s no sense jumping to conclusions,” he said to himself as much as to her. He pulled on his cloak, snatched his diary off the desk—while he trusted Cassandra, he’d nevertheless taken to carrying it with him after learning she knew of it—and started out the door, Moriel’s light footsteps soon following. “Come on. If he was on patrol yesterday, we can ask the others in his shift where he went afterward, and—”

He stopped short. Now that he wasn’t shaking off sleep, he’d realized the problem with what he said. Moriel leaned around him, looking up at him with worry. “What is it?”

Mark wasn’t sure if he should tell her, but to remain silent now would make things worse. “Durran wasn’t _supposed_ to be on patrol yesterday afternoon,” he said. “He was to rotate out after the morning shift.”

He couldn’t bring himself to look at her, but her soft gasp told him what her face couldn’t. _So much for not jumping to conclusions._

Despite all that was happening, Cassandra had insisted on keeping the rule that Mark be escorted by two morphs whenever he left the room. Once they got outside, Moriel flagged down a passing Deichtine. The guard was clearly in the middle of an errand, but when she saw the look on Moriel’s face, her complaints died on her lips. The three of them immediately set out, Mark holding the duty roster for the previous day’s patrols in his mind. Amora had been in charge of the afternoon shift; they found her digging in the garden, Bennet leaning on a shovel as he watched over her.

“Durran?” Amora shrugged. “Yes, he was on patrol yesterday. He wasn’t on the duty roster I was given, but I figured you or Cassandra had made some changes.”

Mark gave a slow nod, doing his best not to look at Moriel. “And he left with the others?”

Bennet shifted, twisting the tip of the shovel into the ground. “Actually,” he said slowly, “he left almost two hours early. I thought about reprimanding him, but I figured he had plans”—his eyes flicked to Moriel—“and since he wasn’t on the roster anyway...”

Mark wished he had a ledger to flip through. Something to occupy his hands, and his eyes. “When you were...” He took a breath. “Before Cassandra freed you, you were both guards from morph outposts, correct?”

It took a long minute for either to reply; Mark felt his face growing hot under their stares. “Yes,” Bennet answered. “Though as you can imagine, we don’t like to think about it.”

“He wouldn’t have asked if it wasn’t important,” Moriel said softly. She looked up at Mark. “Please, tell me it was important.”

 _I wish it wasn’t._ “What work schedule did you keep?”

It was Amora who replied this time. “Sixteen-hour work shifts, with eight hours of rest. That way there would be two shifts on duty at all times.”

“Gods,” Mark breathed.

“It wasn’t so bad.” Deichtine said. Mark had almost forgotten she was there. Her gaze was unfocused, distant; so was her voice. “Our bodies got tired eventually, but our minds...” she shrugged. “We didn’t really have minds, then.”

Cold prickled at Mark’s skin. Bennet stepped forward. “You think that Durran might have…?”

“Only one way to know,” Mark murmured. He had the guards working in six-hour shifts. If he understood what Amora had told him correctly, a morph still under Nergal’s control would probably work straight from midnight to the late afternoon—about two hours before the afternoon shift was to end. He’d sleep through the evening, then rise at midnight to return to work... which meant he’d miss any dinner he was invited to, and then be gone from his quarters were anyone to check in the morning.

Which led to the one conclusion he’d been hoping to avoid.

They found Durran atop the wall, just as they’d feared. He was wearing his armor, patrolling the battlements and peering out at the valley for approaching threats. The other guards on duty kept glancing at him; they knew something was wrong, but weren’t willing to acknowledge what it was. What it had to be.

Mark found himself at the head of their little group, the two women hanging slightly back. Eventually, Moriel stepped around him. “Durran?” Her voice scraped from her throat.

He turned slowly to face them, piercing eyes like two golden arrowheads staring out at them. Moriel flinched back. “No,” she breathed. Whatever she saw in those eyes, it wasn’t the man she’d grown to love.

“What is it?” Durran asked, his voice flat. “I am on duty.”

Mark glanced at the women. Moriel stood at his left, still as stone, eyes fixed on Durran. Deichtine had come around on his right—and it did not escape his attention that her hand was on her sword. The tactician cleared his throat. “Durran, your shift isn’t until later. You’re not on duty right now.”

The giant morph blinked for a moment, and something in those gold eyes clouded. “I—my purpose is—I must guard the outpost from humans, or—”

“There are others guarding it now,” Mark said coaxingly, motioning to the other morphs on the wall. Many of them were watching the scene with fear he could feel even at a distance. “You should be resting.” He hesitated, and looked at Moriel. “You should be with your friends.”

The gold eyes clouded, and Durran shook his head. “I—was supposed to meet her. We were...”

“That’s right,” Moriel said, taking a hopeful step forward. “We were going to meet for dinner, and then I wanted to—”

The cloudiness lifted, replaced by a horrible clarity. Durran blinked once more, and lowered his spear. “You are human.”

Mark flinched as he realized the giant’s gaze was locked on him. “I’m your tactician,” he said slowly, resisting the urge to draw away. “Remember? I set the duty shifts.”

“You are human,” Durran repeated. “I must protect the outpost.”

Deichtine stepped forward. “The outpost is protected,” she said, voice hard. “This human is not a threat. He is a hostage, and must be kept alive.”

Another time, the reminder of Mark’s status would have hurt him. Now, though, it seemed to have the intended effect; Durran paused, and the tip of his spear wavered. “I—yes, I… remember...” He furrowed his brow. “But… he should be in his cell—his room. He should not be...” He took a step forward, spear aimed directly at Mark’s heart.

Deichtine swore, and lunged. Her sword flashed from its scabbard as she leaped at Durran, coming in low and slashing at his legs. Moriel’s shriek drew the gazes of every morph in the fort—but when Deichtine came to a stop, there was the barest trickle of blood coming from Durran’s ankle. He stopped his advance, looking downward. “I’m injured,” he said dully.

“You are injured,” Deichtine echoed, sheathing her still-clean sword. “Report to the infirmary.”

He looked at her for a moment, then nodded. His eyes lingered on Mark as he lumbered past, but his spear remained pointed in the air. He did not so much as glance at Moriel.

Only once he was gone from sight did she collapse against Deichtine, her entire body shaking with sobs.

Cassandra flung the red book against the wall; the crash it made wasn’t nearly loud enough to ease her frustration. “This makes no sense!” she shouted. “Why them? Why now?”

Grace did not so much as flinch at the sound. She remained seated in front of Cassandra’s desk, hands neatly folded over the now-visible swell of her belly. “You’re looking for reason where none may exist,” she said softly.

“There has to be some cause. Five damned years we lived in peace, and now—this?” Cassandra kicked at the table. “Denning was among the last I freed, so why was he the first to revert? And Durran took longer to show symptoms, but by the time anyone noticed, he was almost completely gone. Denning’s still himself—most of the time—so why...”

“Perhaps their time was simply up.” Grace still didn’t look up. “Perhaps this was always going to wear off.”

“But—”

“A mind, even an artificial one, is a complex thing,” Grace went on, speaking as though she were reading from an anatomy text. “Each one works in different ways. The time it takes for symptoms to show, or the speed at which they progress, could depend on a hundred different things all at the same time.”

Cassandra turned slowly to face her. “This is your husband we’re talking about.”

Grace’s fingers tightened on her belly. “I’m quite aware, thank you.” She finally, _finally,_ lifted her gaze to meet Cassandra’s. “I’m less concerned with why it’s affecting morphs differently, and more concerned with how we can stop it from happening at all.”

Cassandra eyed the healer a moment before turning away, running a hand down the length of her braid. “Of course,” she said softly. “That’s what I’m concerned about too. It’s just… none of this makes sense. This shouldn’t be happening _at all,_ never mind how inconsistent it is.” She paced across the room, aware of Grace’s gaze following her all the while. “How is Durran?” she asked.

The healer’s shoulders slumped. “Physically, just fine. A little worn out—his body had adjusted to Mark’s scheduling, but he’ll recover soon enough.” Her eyelids drifted shut. “If he stops following orders from a man five years dead, that is.”

Cassandra forced herself to stop pacing, but no sooner did she sit down than her fingers started drumming on the arm of her chair. She’d been through Nergal’s old notebook a hundred times; she’d tried to remove Durran’s returning directives as soon as she heard what had happened to him, and had done the same for Denning countless times over the last three days. With each treatment, she was able to bring back a little lucidity, leaving him with the healers for observation—but by the next day, he’d be worse off than he was before. One step forward, two steps back. With no idea of how far back they’d be pulled, or who else was going to follow after them, or how to stop it.

“I need to look through the notebook again,” she declared, rising from her seat. “There has to be something I—”

Grace silenced her with a look. “I appreciate your drive, Cassandra, but in the state you’re in, you aren’t going to be any good to anyone. You need to rest before scouring that book again.”

Cassandra paused, looking toward her desk, and the ancient volume concealed within. “Your husband’s life is at stake,” she said quietly. “ _All_ our lives are at stake.”

“As I said before, I’m well aware.” Grace rose as well, cradling her belly. Cassandra briefly wondered how she’d be when she really began to show. _If I’m still lucid enough to see it._ “I suggest you go see Ellaine,” the healer said. “She can help you relax.”

Cassandra fixed her with a stare.

“With a massage,” Grace said, rolling her eyes. “She’s been studying. Even learned a few techniques that are supposed to help with pregnancy.”

Cassandra looked toward the window. The hour was growing late; she’d been working on Durran in the infirmary most of the afternoon, and taking her frustrations out on Grace all evening. “Perhaps you’re right,” she sighed. “Keeping myself up digging through that book is just going to frustrate me even more. I’ll come back with fresh eyes later.”

Grace smiled for the first time that night. “That’s exactly right. I’ll tell Ellaine to come over as soon as she’s able.”

“I didn’t say—”

Another silencing look. _She’s already got the makings of a mother._ “You do what you need to rest, Cassandra. I know how important this is...” Her gaze flicked down to her belly. “Gods know I do. But you can’t take care of us if you don’t take care of yourself.”

Cassandra let out a huff. “Now you just sound like Mark.”

Grace arched an eyebrow as she pushed from the chair. “Coming from you, I’ll take that as a compliment.”

She marched out the door, leaving Cassandra to watch the setting sun through her window.

Mark noticed the smell before he was even up the stairs in Cassandra’s building. He tucked his notebook back into his satchel, nestling it next to his diary, as he sniffed the air. It smelled like something burning—but not wood. It was… sweet? Spicy? A little of both.

 _Incense,_ he realized at last, and had just enough time to think about how incongruous the smell was in a place like this before he pushed open the door and nearly ran into Ellain. She took a step back, surprised. “Mark! My apologies.” She smiled and curtsied, her unusually simple blue robe shifting about her legs.

“No apology needed,” Mark replied automatically, eyeing the small bag she held. He could see an unburned stick of incense poking from the top.

“I’ve finished with Cassandra for now,” Ellain said. She pushed open the door the rest of the way, and Mark felt his cheeks grow red. Cassandra was sitting on the bed, back to him; he caught the briefest glimpse of her bare shoulders before she pulled a red silk robe over them.

“Careful,” Ellain cooed in his ear. “You’ll make her blush.”

Mark was already blushing enough for all of them. Cassandra rose from the bed, tying a belt around the robe. “Ellain,” she said softly, “would you give us a moment?”

“Gladly,” Ellain said salaciously. Her face sobered. “I’d recommend doing this again soon, though. You’ve more knots in your back than a seamstress in her shop.”

“ _Thank you,_ Ellain,” Cassandra huffed. Then, a moment later, “Thank you, Ellain,” in a far gentler tone.

The knowing smile Ellain gave Mark as she swept out the door was enough to set his cheeks afire once more. He turned to find Cassandra approaching him in the too-shear robe. “I wasn’t expecting you so early,” she said.

 _So I see._ “Gavin seemed to think it was urgent I see you.” He glanced over his shoulder, trying to keep his eyes off of her. “Ellain was giving you a massage?”

Cassandra cocked her hips with a smirk. “Did you think she was giving me something else?”

Mark didn’t bother to respond. He was already blushing plenty.

Her smirk turned to a smile. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t be teasing you. Especially not now.” She took a step back, tightening the belt. “Deichtine told me about Durran,” she murmured. “Everything.”

Mark frowned. “Yes, and?”

She let out a huff. “You really don’t get it? Mark, Durran almost killed you.”

“That’s a bit of an exaggeration,” he said. “He was moving that way, yes, but Deichtine—”

“And if she hadn’t been there?”

“Someone would. You always have two guards on me.”

“And if there were too many reverted morphs for the guards to stop? Worse—what if the guards reverted?”

Mark took a breath—and stopped. He didn’t have an argument for that. For anything she was saying.

She eyed him, from his boots to his hair. “You need to leave,” she said.

He actually fell back, catching himself on the doorframe. “I—what?”

“Hector’s messenger will be here tomorrow, intending to collect your letter. He’ll be collecting you instead. You’re going back to Ostia.” She took a breath. “I’m—setting you free.”

Mark felt as though the bottom had fallen out of his lungs. He pushed himself off the doorframe, walking unsteadily forward. Cassandra looked up at him, jaw set. “Cassandra,” he whispered. “It’s just two morphs. Maybe...”

Her eyes drifted shut. “It’s not.”

“What?”

“After you left Durran, I got more reports.” She laid a hand on her desk. The book was there—Nergal’s red leather notebook, written in its strange, unearthly script. Next to it, a stack of papers, text scribbled hastily in her hand. “Three more morphs have begun reverting since this morning. Gods know how many it’ll be by tomorrow.”

“Three?” Mark’s voice felt hollow in his own mouth. He stepped forward, looking over the papers. Shel. Ronic. Guile. “Oh, Cassandra...”

She pursed her lips. “I can’t keep you safe anymore, and if anything happened to you—”

“Hector wouldn’t—”

“You think I give a damn about Hector anymore?” she spat. She glared up at him. “Mark, if anything happened to you, _I_ wouldn’t be able to live with myself. I meant it when I told you I—”

She stumbled on the words, and turned away, leaning on her desk. Mark stepped forward, willing his breaths to even, and placed a hand on her shoulder. “I can’t leave you. Not now.”

Cassandra moved her hand to his, gripping his fingers tightly. “You have to.”

“You need me.” Even as he said it, he knew it wasn’t true. “I mean—I can help.”

“You’ll help by being safe. By returning to Ostia where I know they—we—can’t hurt you.”

He went still as those words sunk in. “Don’t tell me you’re...”

“No.” She shook her head. “I haven’t heard his voice, or felt his command, or… whatever’s happening to the others. I’m still as me as I ever was.” She blinked, and a tear rolled down her cheek. “But the others...”

Mark stepped forward, lifting a finger and wiping away the tear. It was soon replaced by another, and another. She spun, clasping her arms behind his back and pressing her face into his chest; dampness spread through his shirt, but he ignored it.

“I’m losing them,” she choked. “I’m losing my family. One by one, they’re all turning into something else, something I don’t recognize, and it’s happening to everyone, and I don’t know if it’ll happen to _me,_ and either way, I’ll be alone again, and—”

She broke off with a sob, clutching tighter to his chest. There was nothing Mark could do but hold her, putting one arm around her back as the other stroked her hair.

“You have to leave tomorrow,” she whispered.

He hesitated a long moment. “All right,” he replied. “I will.”

Her body shivered with a silent sob. “Thank you,” she managed to say at last.

He held her until her quivering subsided, and she pulled away. Cassandra took a deep breath, let it out slowly, and met his eyes. “I have one more request.”

“Name it.”

“Stay with me tonight.”

Mark’s mind went blank.

“I’m not going to try anything,” she promised. “But I can’t have you be alone while this is happening. And without understanding what’s causing it, I don’t know who I can trust.” She lowered her eyes. “In truth, this is the safest place you can be right now.”

Mark found his tongue at last. “Are you sure? I thought you couldn’t afford to be distracted, and… people will talk.”

Cassandra smirked. “You think I care what people say about us?” She ran her hand along his back. “I’d be more distracted if I spent all night tossing and turning, wondering if you were safe. This is the only way I’ll get any sleep tonight.”

Mark glanced around at her room—and its single bed. “We could…” he trailed off before he could finish. It was a bad idea, and they both knew it.

Cassandra nodded. “I’ll lay some blankets on the floor. You can have the bed.”

Mark looked into her eyes, seeing his own sorrow reflected there.

“Of course,” he whispered. “Of course I’ll stay with you.” He took her hands, squeezing them gently. “Every second I get to spend with you is one I’ll cherish.”

Cassandra turned away—but not before he could see the joy in her eyes. “Flatterer,” she grumbled.

Mark only smiled.

“What,” Hector growled, “is _he_ doing here?”

Matthew had to admit that the scene was intimidating. The Marquess of Ostia stood shoulder-to-shoulder with Lyn and Eliwood. Each of the latter had hands on the hilts of their respective swords. Hector, on the other hand, was already wielding Armads, dropped into a fighting stance. One of the strongest men on the continent wielding a legendary weapon, ready to strike.

Matthew didn’t flinch. Neither, at his side, did Jaffar.

“I sent for him,” the spymaster said in answer to his lord’s question. He turned. “I sent for all of them.”

The audience chamber of Castle Ostia was full of faces familiar and new. Fiora and Farina had flown down from Ilia, with the aging Wallace in tow. Heath greeted them warmly; Lyn had sent for him and Sain once the others started arriving a few days before. Rath was accompanied by a handful of Kutolah warriors, including the wayward Guy, an unusually quiet Karel, and a stern-looking man Matthew understood to be Rath’s father, Dayan. Dorcas and Bartre stood together, exchanging stories about their families even while casting worried looks at the lords. Dart reunited with old friends as other members of Fargus’s crew looked on. Gorlois had even managed to locate Vaida, still hiding in Bern—a fact that infuriated the old general, but she’d come nonetheless. They all had.

And there, at the front of it all, accompanied by Legault and what few Black Fang survivors remained, stood Jaffar, arms crossed, eyes fixed on the three lords. Dark hair, dark eyes, dark skin—everything about Jaffar was dark, not least of all his soul. Darkness rolled off him in waves, seeping out from under his head scarf and spilling all across the room. Matthew had to force himself to stay at the man’s side. And yet stay he did.

Hector planted the haft of Armads firmly on the ground. His eyes blazed at Matthew. “And why,” he growled, “did you do that?”

“The existence of Nergal and his morphs were known only to a select few during the conflict,” Matthew said evenly. “In order to deal with this new situation without compromising the security of that information, I reached out to—”

“Don’t you ‘compromising security’ me!” Hector barked. “This is—” He cut off, eyeing the rest of the room. Most of the newcomers were involved in their own conversations, but not a few were watching the group with wary eyes. “This is _treason_ , Matthew,” he hissed, returning his gaze to the spy. “You may have destroyed everything we’ve been working for.”

Matthew tilted his head. “And what _have_ you been working for, milord? Where have all our discussions, all our speculation, all our perusal of letter after letter gotten us?”

Hector narrowed his eyes. “You watch your tone. I’ve trusted you all these years, Matthew, but this time you’ve—”

“He’s done what needed to be done,” Jaffar interrupted. Matthew flinched at the man’s deep voice; even after all these years, it was hard to believe the former assassin was actually younger than him. “He’s gathered a force that can wipe out the morphs once and for all.”

Hector’s grip tightened in his ax. “You’re talking? To me?” His glare shot back and forth between the two of them. “Are you _serious?”_

Matthew lowered his eyes. “My lord,” he said softly, “the fact that I am standing next to this man—that I invited him here—should tell you _exactly_ how serious I am.”

Hector looked as though he was ready to take both their heads then and there. It was Eliwood who stopped him, stepping forward with his gaze fixed on Jaffar. “We may not have to destroy the morphs,” he said. “They claim to want to live in peace.”

Jaffar inclined his head. “I… mean this with true respect, my lords. For all of you.” He glanced at Hector. “But I know morphs. I worked with them—worked for them.” He paused. “I… still see their faces at night. Cruel Sonia. Heartless Ephidel. And Limstella...” He shook his head. “I didn’t believe Matthew’s message at first. Not really. But the idea that there even _might_ be morphs still alive… I had to come.” He fingered the hilt of his blade. “I have to end this.”

Eliwood drew forward. “I understand how you feel,” he said. “But these morphs are different.”

“How many of you have met them? In person?”

Silence fell over the group. Matthew shut his eyes. “Only Hector and myself,” he answered.

Jaffar spared him a glance. “And your impressions?”

“They kidnapped our tactician. That’s all that matters.” Matthew paused. “But… I defer to my lord.”

“Do you, now,” Hector growled.

Jaffar nodded. “And you, Lord Hector? What did you make of the morphs when you met them?”

Silence again.

Jaffar took a slow breath. “My lords. Legault has been helping former members of the Black Fang to start new lives—including myself. They answer to him. If you move against the morphs, they will support you.”

Legault gave a little wave. The violet-haired thief’s headband and smug smile from five years before remained in place, as did Matthew’s desire to punch him. He seemed absolutely unfazed by the tension in the room, taking more interest in the stained-glass windows than in the conversation.

Hector pursed his lips. “And if we don’t move against the morphs?”

Jaffar lowered his eyes. “I have only ever been a blade. I do nothing without an arm to wield me.”

Hector looked the two of them over, rage still smoldering behind his eyes. “Get out of my sight,” he hissed. “Both of you.”

“As you wish, my lord,” Matthew said. “Though I should remind you that Mark’s next letter is due tomorrow.”

“And you won’t be picking it up,” Hector growled. “We’ll send someone else. _Go.”_

Matthew ignored the way his heart seized at his lord’s words. He turned and left, not bothering to listen for Jaffar’s footsteps behind him. He wouldn’t be able to hear them anyway.

Grace was asleep as Peleus entered the infirmary. He let out a soft breath of relief. What was happening was as hard on her as anyone, and her insistence on helping Cassandra with the reverted morphs was doing no favors to her health. He was glad to see her finally getting some rest. The other healers had all gone to bed for the night, and the reverted morphs all appeared to be asleep as well. This handful were the only ones that anyone had noticed, but there would assuredly soon be more. Peleus’s heart felt weary at the thought of all the work before him—but there was no avoiding it.

He went to the cabinet to retrieve the supplies he’d need, passing Grace’s bed as he did so. She stirred slightly as he passed, and he stopped, grimacing. “Denning?” she murmured, still mostly asleep.

He put on a gentle smile. “Just Peleus, I fear,” he whispered. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”

“I wasn’t sleeping,” she grumbled. She started to shift. “What...”

“Nothing’s going on,” he said, laying a comforting hand on her shoulder. “I’m just cleaning up before I turn in. Rest, now. For the baby’s sake.”

“Not fragile,” she murmured, even as her body settled back into the bed. “Wake me if anyone else...”

She didn’t finish the sentence. Peleus looked her over, then sighed. He went to the cabinet, rooted around in a satchel sitting on the shelf, and pulled out the book he needed. He then went to the first of the four beds across from Grace’s, giving the occupant a gentle shake. “Wake up, Durran,” he whispered.

The massive morph came awake quickly, rising from the bed and standing at attention. “Sir?”

Peleus smiled. “I am not your master, Durran. Simply someone who’s trying to help you.” He looked down at the blue book. “To help all of us.”

Durran said nothing, and Peleus’s smile broadened. “Wake the others,” he said. “We have much to do.”


	13. Chapter 13

_Day 55. I should be terrified for my life, I know. Yet all I can think about is Cassandra. Elimine, please let her be safe._

Mark came awake slowly, blissfully. His awareness crept outward from his body to the rustle of the sheets, the light playing across his face, and the warmth of the woman beside him. His eyes blinked open to find Cassandra's looking into them; she was lying face down, chin resting on her fist, and a smile crossed her features as his eyes focused. "Good morning," he murmured.

"Good morning," she replied.

And then she was upon him. His body came fully awake as she smothered it with her own; her lips pressed to his, her hands gripped his wrists, her hips pushed down onto him. He wrested his arms free from her grasp and wrapped them around her, pulling her even tighter against him. For a brief, blissful moment, he forgot who he was, where he was, and what he had to do.

Then reality seeped in, and he pressed on Cassandra's shoulders. She pulled away reluctantly, looking down at him. "I know," she whispered. "I know, and I'm sorry."

"Last night, you…" Mark looked over at the tousled blankets on the floor, where Cassandra had slept—or tried to sleep—the night before.

She reached down and stroked his cheek. "You're right. But the more I thought about it, the less sense it made. Mark, if things don't go well—"

"Don't talk like that."

"If things don't go well, I might never see you again. And—" She ground her hips into him, and he struggled not to groan. "I don't want either of us to have any regrets."

He looked up at her, at those golden eyes, once a source of fear for him, now pooled with love and sorrow. "Which would we regret more?"

Cassandra shook her head. "I won't claim to know. But there's only one way to be sure."

She leaned down to kiss him again, and he rose to meet her.

The door shook with a rapid knock. Mark's heart felt like it would flee his chest. Cassandra jerked upright, glaring at the door. "The next person who knocks on that is going to lose their hands," she growled. She straightened, calling to be heard through the wood. "Not now! I'll be out in a minute!"

When there was no reply, she relaxed, looking back down at Mark. "Well," she cooed, "maybe more than one minute."

Then the door shook again, this time from a tremendous blow. In an instant, Cassandra was on her feet, holding a blade she'd seemingly produced from thin air. Mark scrambled to his feet, grateful that Cassandra hadn't gotten around to undressing him this time. "What's going on?" he asked hurriedly.

"Stay back," she hissed, advancing toward the door. "Who's there?" she called. "Identify yourself, or I'll—"

The blow came again, this time splintering the door partway off its hinges. Cassandra leapt back, positioning herself between the entryway and Mark. One more strike, and the whole thing came free, falling into the room with a crash. Behind it, Durran stood, holding a miniature battering ram in his oversized hands. At his side, hands folded piously and head held high, was Peleus. Moriel stood behind the two of them, standing unusually still, not so much as glancing at Durran.

Peleus entered first, stepping over the ruined door and nodding politely at Cassandra. "I apologize for the damage, but it was imperative I see you right away." He looked around the room, his gaze falling briefly on Mark. His brow wrinkled. "Hmm. I see what had you so preoccupied."

"What's going on?" Cassandra said, stepping back and eyeing Durran. She kept a hand on her blade. "What's he doing out of the infirmary?" She glanced at Peleus. "And what's he doing with a weapon?"

Peleus eyed her a moment, then lowered his eyes. "It pains me to do this, Cassandra," he said. "Really, it does. You were just doing what you thought was right. In your position—alone, confused, unable to achieve what I was meant to—I might even have done the same thing."

Mark's poor heart, already in shock from moments before, started to hammer. Cassandra's knuckled whitened on the hilt of her blade. "What," she growled, "are you saying?"

Peleus folded his hands behind his back. "I think you know. But I shall make it explicit, for the human's sake." He straightened. "I gave Durran the weapon. I also gave him his purpose—the purpose you took from him. You call it reversion, but in truth it's restoration. I returned him to his original state, how he was meant to—"

Cassandra screamed in outrage, rushing forward. "You _bastard,_ I'll—"

Peleus motioned with his left hand, and Moriel sprang forward. Too late, Mark realized the glint had gone from her golden eyes; she was just as far gone as Durran. Moriel lifted her lance across her chest, blocking the blow before it even came close to Peleus. Cassandra's eyes widened. "No," she whispered.

Every fiber of Mark's being wished to run to Cassandra's rescue, but he had just enough sense left to know that was a terrible idea. He was outnumbered and seriously outmatched; the only thing he'd do was get in her way. He needed to find a way out, to get help. He began inching toward the door, circling around Cassandra and Moriel, hoping to slip past Peleus's notice.

He did not succeed. A bright flash and the faint scent of sulfur were his only warnings, and Mark managed to barely twist out of the way as a fire spell roared to life beneath him. "Stay where you are, human," Peleus warned. "I am not as convinced of your worth as the others."

Cassandra shot him a worried look, taking her eyes off Moriel for a split second. The pegasus knight tried to take advantage of the brief distraction, shoving on their locked weapons. Cassandra was ready, though; her eyes snapped back to her opponent as she let her sword slip along the lance's haft, then quickly swung about, coming in under Moriel's guard. She slammed her shoulder into the pegasus knight's chest, eliciting a huff—the first sound to escape Moriel's lips since their arrival. As Moriel staggered backward, Cassandra took up her stance again. "Stand down!" she ordered. "Don't make me do this!"

Peleus shook his head. "You know she won't obey. She follows my orders, now." He motioned. "Durran?"

The guard clanked forward to assist Moriel—no. _He's coming straight for me,_ Mark realized with a start. The tactician didn't wait to see what happened next, but turned and made for the window. It wasn't much of a plan B, but if he survived the fall mostly intact, he could find some morphs Peleus hadn't yet turned and—

A spear materialized in front of his legs, and he spilled to the ground, chin cracking painfully against the stone floor. Hands grabbed him from behind—not Durran's gauntlets, but Moriel's slender fingers. He heard Cassandra's cry, and craned his neck around, ignoring the pain as his arms twisted in a way they weren't meant to. It was Moriel who'd grabbed him, but she'd turned her back to her foe. Cassandra was rushing her now, blade drawn—

And Durran stood over Cassandra, bringing his gauntleted fist down at the precise moment—

She made no sound. No cry of pain, no huff of surprise. She simply crumpled, falling to the floor in a heap at Mark's side. Her eyes did not open. She did not move.

Mark's chest turned to ice. _No._

Moriel hauled him to his feet, but his eyes remained fixed on Cassandra the whole time. Durran picked her up and brought her to Peleus, like a cat presenting its kill. Peleus eyed her unmoving form. "Hmm. Perhaps a bit much, yes?" He tapped Cassandra's nose, eliciting no response. "Well, no matter. Tie her hands while I work."

Mark swallowed past the heart in his throat. As Durran quickly tied Cassandra's hands behind her back, Peleus lifted his staff, and the room was filled with a gentle glow.

Cassandra's eyes flickered open, and Mark found himself breathing once more. He hadn't truly realized he'd stopped. Tears threatened his eyes—but he dared not spill them now.

Moriel continued to hold him fast as Durran tightened Cassandra's bonds. The leader's head lolled groggily, her eyes focusing and unfocusing. "Where… what..." She at last seemed to gain some clarity, and looked at Peleus. "You," she hissed, eyes narrowing.

His shoulders slumped. "I'm sorry we had to hurt you," he said softly. "But do you not see how much better this is?" He motioned to Durran and Moriel. "These two would not have been able to defeat you before today. Even outnumbered, you could've overpowered Moriel and outlasted Durran to secure a victory. Worse, you could have used her feelings for Durran against her."

Moriel should have blushed at that. They both should have. Neither gave any indication they'd even heard.

"But now?" Peleus spread his arms. "Now, they are working together. As a unit. As they were meant to. Moving under the direction of a single mind, not engaging in"—he glanced at Mark—"foolish dalliances."

Heat shot through Mark's veins, but Cassandra's glare remained icy as ever. "What," she growled, "did you do?"

Peleus lowered his arms slowly. "You're angry. I hoped you wouldn't be, but… well." He went to the door, and called outside. "We're ready. Bring him in."

A moment later, three more morphs entered. Two of them were riders, and their golden eyes had the same vacancy as Moriel's. But between them was—

"Luther," Peleus said, smiling for the first time that day. "Thank you for joining us."

Luther blinked in confusion—they _still have their senses,_ Mark realized. "Did I have a choice?" Luther looked at the guards at their sides as they spoke.

"No," Peleus replied cheerfully. "But thank you all the same." He motioned to one of the guards, who held out a bag—Luther's bag, which they'd arrived with weeks ago. Peleus took the bag, digging around in it briefly before retrieving a book.

A very old leather-bound book. One that, except for its blue-dyed cover, was almost identical to the one sitting on Cassandra's desk.

"Where did you get that?" she gasped.

Peleus turned to Luther. "I believe you can answer her question, can't you?"

"It's mine," Luther replied, still confused. "Before I came here, I was a courier. I was entrusted with that book, transporting it from Valor to Nabata. But when I arrived, the outpost was empty, and I didn't know what else to do. So, I kept the book and kept hidden. Then the humans found me, I ran away, I got thirsty, and the next thing I knew, I was here."

Moriel still had a fast hold of Mark's hands. _Perhaps if I can distract her, cause her to underestimate my strength…_ But no, he was thinking like she was a human. Now that her mind was back to its original state, there was no way she'd loosen her grip, even for an instant.

"Here," Cassandra echoed. She looked at Peleus. "Where you treated them."

Peleus nodded gravely. "I was the first healer there. While our riders dug around in their pack long enough to find their empty canteen, I was the first to find the book—and to realize its significance." He opened the tome, turning carefully through the pages. "You've kept the first book to yourself, Cassandra, but finding this one finally gave me the opportunity to correct your mistakes."

"Then it's—"

"Another of Nergal's notebooks, yes." He turned the book, showing her pages. The scrawl was nearly identical to the code in Cassandra's own volume. The handwriting was slightly different—but then, Nergal had hundreds of years for his writing hand to tire. "It took me a few weeks before I was ready," he went on. "Then, as you saw with Denning, my early attempts gave… _incomplete_ results."

Mark felt his teeth clench. "You _experimented_ on him?" Cassandra hissed.

Peleus shrugged. "He was always loitering about the infirmary, checking on Grace. Working on him while she slept was easy. I just had to ensure he didn't remember what I'd done."

Cassandra pulled against her bonds. Durran placed a hand on her shoulder, and she froze.

"I knew I couldn't just return them to how they were; I had to ensure my work couldn't be undone. Ultimately, I wasn't able to stop you, but I could at least slow you down, preventing from fully corrupting Denning until I was ready to try again. I caught Durran alone on his way to meet Moriel, and when he returned to his original purpose of guarding—not playing at being a dancer or an engineer, but doing what he was _meant_ to do—I knew I was on the right track. By the end of the day, I'd practiced on a few others, and was ready to begin in earnest." Peleus turned to Mark. "Last night, while you two were… otherwise occupied, my compatriots and I successfully restored half the population of the fort."

Mark's jaw fell open. "No," he whispered.

"It's not possible," Cassandra breathed.

Peleus rubbed his eyes with his free hand. "I can't begin to tell you how exhausted I am. But it was worth it. The look in their eyes, when they once more become who they were meant to be..." Mark was sickened by the warmth in Peleus's smile. "There's no other feeling like it, I'll tell you."

"You're taking their freedom!" Cassandra's voice was weak, but there was still venom in it.

"I'm giving them purpose!" Peleus snapped, the smile vanishing from his face. "Purpose that you stole!"

"I freed them," she rasped.

He strode over to here, staring her right in the face. "Freed them from what? Rather—freed them _to_ what?" He crossed his arms. "Do you know what I felt when you 'freed' me? Confusion. Loss. Horror. Suddenly, everything I knew—everything I was—had been snatched away."

"Everyone felt like that," Cassandra hissed. " _I_ felt like that. But in time—"

"No." He almost snarled the word. "You don't get to tell us how we felt. I was content to live out our days as I was. You took that decision from me. All because of your selfishness. Your loneliness." He crossed his arms over his chest. "You took away my identity. You took it from every morph in these walls. As I said, I can sympathize—but you couldn't possibly believe you'd simply get away with it."

Cassandra looked at the ground, shaking her head. "I helped them," she whispered. "Nobody said they didn't..."

"Nobody dared," Peleus sneered. "Oh, I'm sure some were truly grateful to you. But those who weren't were too afraid to speak up. They might have fled, had there been anywhere to go. Instead, we were all stuck here, kowtowing to you, and watching you subject every new morph through the same horror we'd endured."

Cassandra raised her eyes, the gold in them turned to steel. "It's not true."

"No?" He turned away, focusing his attention on their guest. "Luther. Have you been listening to all of this?"

"Yes," they replied.

"And?"

"...And?"

Peleus let out a sigh. "How did you feel when Cassandra took your purpose from you?"

"Just as you say," Luther replied. "I was frightened and confused." They looked uncertainly at Cassandra. "I still am, in many ways. It was easier when Nergal's voice told me what to do."

She looked stricken; Peleus lifted his chin. "And would you not like that purpose back?"

"I..." Luther faltered, gaze shifting from Cassandra to Peleus and back again.

Some of the triumph faded from the healer's face. "Well?"

Luther glanced at Mark, and their jaw set. "No," they said. "No, I would not. I was frightened of this freedom—but that doesn't mean I would trade it. Not for anything."

Mark let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding. Cassandra actually laughed. "Luther," she whispered. "Oh, gods, thank you."

Peleus let out a sigh; he folded the blue book under one arm, and rubbed his temples. "Disappointing," he said. "I had hoped you'd join us willingly."

"You should free her," Luther said, stepping forward. "If people want to join you, they can, but otherwise…"

Peleus looked up at them, smiling sadly. "If only it were that simple." He motioned to the two riders. "Hold them."

Realization hit all of them too late. Cassandra roared in fury; Mark surged forward, only to be yanked back by Moriel's surprising strength. Luther blinked in surprise, then turned and dove for the door; but the riders, just as nimble as they, seized them before they made it halfway. They struggled fiercely as they were dragged over to Cassandra's desk. "Let me go! I don't want to—"

"Dammit, Peleus!" Cassandra roared. "They just told you their decision! You can't do this!"

"I think you'll find I can," Peleus replied wearily.

Mark spun in Moriel's grasp, lurching toward the window. "Help!" he shouted. "Somebody, help us!"

Moriel quickly placed a hand over his mouth, turning him back toward the group; Peleus shook his head at her. "No need for that. None who can hear will heed him."

Her hand slid away, and further cries died in Mark's throat as he watched the scene. Durran cleared off Cassandra's desk with a single sweep of his massive arm, sending its contents crashing to the floor—including the red book. Cassandra turned toward it, and for an instant, Mark thought she might be able to secret it away while everyone else was focused on Luther—but before she could kick it under the bed, Peleus scooped it up, sliding it into the bag. He cast an admonishing look at Cassandra, who only glared back.

The three morphs slammed Luther onto the table; the riders held their arms, and Durran had both their feet pinned. Peleus opened the blue book, and began circling the table as he read. The whole thing was like a twisted reflection of the tableau Mark had seen in his own quarters when Cassandra had first freed Luther; Peleus was reading the same type of code, though the specific words were different, and Luther reacted just as violently as they had then. Their shouts morphed into wordless screams; Cassandra and Mark both struggled against their bonds, Cassandra actually getting up and rushing the table before Durran shoved her away. Peleus read louder to be heard over all the shouting, Luther arched their back in agony—

And all went still.

Luther collapsed to the desk. Mark and Cassandra both fell silent, their shouts catching in their throats. Peleus slowly closed the blue book and walked to the end of the desk, gently touching Luther's forehead. "What is your name?" he asked gently.

"Luther," the morph replied. Their voice was neutral, steady—perhaps, even, unfeeling.

Peleus drew a breath. "And what is your purpose?"

"I am a courier."

Mark's blood chilled; Cassandra fell to her knees. "No," she whispered. "No..."

Peleus turned to her, smiling wearily. "You have now seen my work firsthand," he said. "Is there any doubt left in your mind that this is—"

She sprung up, rushing him, slamming her head into his nose. There was a loud _crack_ , and Peleus cried out in pain, stumbling backward as blood poured from his nose. Cassandra lowered her shoulder, charging again—

Durran grabbed her, lifting her off the ground. "Let me go!" she shrieked. "He has to pay for—"

Peleus stepped forward, holding a sleeve to his nose to staunch the blood, and waved at Durran. "Gently," he said as clearly as he could with a broken nose. "Her anger is understandable. We need not punish her for it."

"I'll show you punishment!" Cassandra roared. "Luther told you they didn't want this, and you did it anyway? You damned hypocrite, you dare call _me_ selfish?"

Peleus held out one hand, the other still clutching his nose. "Everything I do, I do for our people."

"And when they're all reverted?"

"Restored."

She snorted. "What happens to you then, you bastard?"

He smiled behind his hand. "You underestimate us. I've been able to teach other morphs to perform the restoration. It's easy, when they've had their true nature restored. Once all of us are united in purpose, I'll have them restore me, and we can finally be as we were meant to—together."

Mark's jaw fell open. If other morphs could perform the reversion, that "half the fort" Peleus had mentioned earlier was probably at least three-quarters by now. Before long, there wouldn't be a single free morph left. Cassandra would be alone, again. And as for him...

Cassandra lifted her chin. "And when exactly will that happen?"

His smile flickered. "There is much to do," he demurred. "Ostia must be dealt with, and this baby… it will be some time before I can—"

"Just what I thought," she said with a smirk.

He looked offended. "I am willing to sacrifice my purpose for the others' sake if I must."

Cassandra barked out a laugh. "Oh, 'sacrifice your purpose,' will you? You power-drunk worm. I can't believe I never saw your true colors until now."

"You never saw anyone's true colors," he spat. "You painted them over with what you wanted them to be. I am restoring them to—"

"Save it," she growled. "You don't care about them; you just want them under your thumb."

Peleus might have been frowning behind his sleeve. One of the riders approached him, carrying a staff, and held it aloft; one glowing second later, Peleus lowered his arm, gingerly touching his now-healed nose. He sighed, and began wiping the blood from his face. "You don't know how it pains me to hear you say that," he murmured. "I had hoped you would stand by me for this. Foolish of me, perhaps, and yet." He reached out and gently touched her face; Mark felt his blood begin to boil. "You've done a wonderful job leading us, Cassandra, and I'd have you continue to do so at my side. I know it seems horrible now, but once you join the rest of us—"

She spat at his feet. "I won't be 'joining' anything, you monster. You want to 'restore' me to how I was? _This_ is how I was."

"I'm aware," he sighed. "We won't be restoring you, Cassandra. We'll be _repairing_ you."

She went still; Mark felt his heart stop for what felt like the third time that morning. "What?" Cassandra croaked.

"It won't be as simple as restoring the others was, I'm afraid. It may take a long time—and it may be quite painful." He smiled at her. "But we will persevere. We have Nergal's notebooks, and we have each other. We'll find a way to remove your defect, and return you to how you were meant to be—restore the purpose you were denied all along."

Mark had never seen Cassandra look so afraid. "You can't," she whispered. "You can't do that."

Peleus laid a hand on her shoulder. "Have faith, child," he said. "We'll find a way to help you. He stepped back, looking up at Durran. "Take her to the infirmary and give her something to help her sleep. We'll start on her as soon as we're done with the others."

"No," Cassandra said again. She began struggling as Durran yanked her toward the door. "No!" She thrashed about, looking at Peleus with desperate eyes. "Don't do this! I'll do whatever you want, I'll throw myself on my sword, just—don't do this!"

"Cassandra!" Mark cried, struggling in vain. "Cassandra, I—"

The two riders stepped out after Durran as Cassandra's cries vanished down the hallway. Mark was left with silence choking his throat. Peleus sighed, shaking his head. "Such fire in that woman. I can see why you took to her—though I can't imagine why she chose you."

It took Mark a long moment to realize Peleus was talking to him. "You can't do this to her," he whispered.

The healer shot him an annoyed look. "As I said before, I think you'll find I can." He turned to the door, and almost immediately stumbled, barely catching himself on Cassandra's table.

In a moment, Moriel's grip on Mark's hands had vanished; she was instead at Peleus's side, helping him up. "You need rest," she said flatly.

"I suppose I do," he said with a grimace. "I wish to get started on Cassandra immediately… but I won't be any good to her like this." He motioned toward the door, and Moriel began helping him.

Mark stepped forward, flexing his now-free hands. "Peleus, please! Consider the facts."

To his shock, the morphs actually stopped. Peleus turned a furrowed brow toward Mark. "What facts? I was able to restore the morphs, something she thought impossible. Why wouldn't I be able to find a way to help her?"

Mark forced himself to speak calmly. "It's completely different. You said so yourself. You don't know what will happen when you start tinkering with her mind. You might drive her to madness. You might kill her."

Peleus lowered his eyes. "I wish I could say you're wrong," he sighed. "But all those are possibilities, yes." He shrugged. "Still, Cassandra has always been willing to give her life for us. I must believe that, were she in her right mind, this is what she'd want."

"She _is_ in her right—" Mark bit back the statement; true as it was, Peleus wasn't going to listen.

The healer touched his arm. "Try to be happy for her," he said. "If you truly care for her, then know that she'll never feel pain again after this. She'll never be sad, or angry, or lonely ever again."

Mark wanted to bite the man's nose off. He swallowed his anger and feigned supplication. "Please," he whispered. "You said you respect her. Please, don't hurt her."

Peleus appeared to consider his words for a minute. He let go of Mark's arm and stepped back, eyeing him. "Luther?" he asked at length.

The rider, who'd been lying quietly on the desk, finally rose. "Yes?"

"You tried to kill this human last month, correct?"

_Oh, no._

Luther simply nodded.

"Had you succeeded, Ostia would have attacked us," Peleus went on. "The morphs would have been drawn into battle."

He glanced at Moriel, who tossed her sword to Luther. They caught it by the scabbard and unsheathed the blade in a single swift motion.

"It's time you finished the job," Peleus said quietly.

He and Moriel were out of the room a heartbeat later. Mark had just enough sense to dash after them—too late. Luther was on their feet and had moved between Mark and the exit, standing on the splintered ruins of the door itself. Mark hissed out a curse as Luther started advancing, and turned to the window once more. With Moriel gone, maybe he could—

The room darkened briefly as the window was filled by a figure. Someone wearing a cloak leapt through, landing softly on the floor with a knife drawn. Mark stumbled to a halt, and glanced over his shoulder at Luther. The morph was almost upon him. He was out of time, out of exits—and Cassandra was going to be tortured by a madman, until either her mind was his to command, or her mind was gone altogether.

There was a flash of metal; something whizzed past Mark's leg and embedded itself in Luther's. The morph went down with a grunt, dropping the blade and glaring past the tactician.

Mark snapped his head forward. "What—"

The figure pulled down its hood and Gavin stood there, already drawing a second knife as he looked Mark over. "Come on," he grunted. "We need to go, now."

Florina kissed Heath deeply, enjoying the feeling of his arms around her as much as she enjoyed the feel of his lips. After all this time, she hardly felt embarrassed by the show of affection—despite the cooing and gagging coming from her sisters. They parted at last, her husband looking down at her with those soft blue eyes of his. His green hair still had that white tuft, but had cut it far shorter than in their days fighting Nergal. He somehow seemed to think it made him look knightlier. Not that she was complaining.

"Take care of yourself," Heath said, rubbing her cheek.

She smiled up at him. "Don't worry, I will." She glanced over her shoulder. "And I'll take care of them, too."

Heath followed her gaze to where her sisters stood. Fiora waved; Farina was still pretending to vomit. "Good," he said with a smile. "I'll see all three of you soon."

He turned and left; Florina followed suit, crossing over to where her sisters waited. Fiora tilted her head. "You sure you don't want him to accompany us?"

"Oh, I'd love for him to," Florina sighed, "but he has to help Kent coordinate the rest of the knights. Besides, it doesn't take four people to get a letter."

"It doesn't take _three_ people to get a letter, either," Farina pointed out.

Florina rolled her eyes. "Either way, I haven't seen Heath in weeks; I haven't seen you two in almost a year." She seized both her sisters in an embrace.

Fiora returned the hug even as Farina struggled. "Hey, hey!" she complained. "Come on, we've got a reputation as hardened mercenaries to maintain!"

"Speak for yourself," Fiora replied as they parted. "I'm just happy to see my little sister again." She smiled at Florina. "Sorry we haven't had much time to catch up."

"We can talk on the way to the fort," Florina replied cheerily. "The winds shouldn't be too bad today, so we'll be able to hear each other."

The three of them turned down the hall. They'd met outside her temporary quarters, right next to Lyn's chambers, which placed them on the second floor of the castle. They began making their way to the staircase, rounding a corner to find Raven standing outside a door. The mercenary was grumbling something under his breath; he raised his hand and rapped on the door, the look on his face indicating it was not the first time he'd done so.

Florina stopped short at the sight of him. Even being married to Heath for three years hadn't fully removed her fear of men, and Raven was intimidating even when he was trying to be nice. Still, she'd worked with him before, and—

"Hey!" Farina shouted, startling her. "Raven, right?" She brushed past Florina, waving to the mercenary. "How's it going?"

He looked over at them, and quickly hid his scowl. "Dame Florina," he said, nodding to her. "And your... sisters?"

Florina nodded, pleased to find herself hardly nervous at all. "That's right," she squeaked.

Well, maybe a _little_ nervous.

She cleared her throat, and motioned to her sides. "You remember Fiora," she said, pleased to find her voice mostly under control, "and Farina."

Raven nodded. "Nice to see you again. Wish it was under better circumstances."

"I'm not complaining," Farina replied, eyeing him.

Florina coughed again before motioning to the door. "Did you need Sister Serra for something?"

Raven's shoulders slumped. "Yeah. This arrived today." He held out his hand, and for the first time, Florina noticed the letter he held.

She peered closely at the scroll, and her eyes widened. "From Lucius?"

He nodded. "I was just going to open it, but I figured she'd want to read it with me," he admitted. He shot a glare at the door. "She's not answering the door, though. Probably pretending she can't hear me so she can get her 'beauty sleep' or something."

Florina furrowed her brow. "She might be in the chapel."

Raven glanced at her. "Why would she be there?"

"She's… a cleric?"

He stared at her a moment, then sighed. "Oh. I forgot that."

Florina couldn't help but smile. "Honestly, sometimes, I think she forgets that, too."

He laughed despite himself, then quickly chased the smile from his face. "Well, thanks. Sorry to bother you." He turned back the way he came—

"The chapel's actually this way," Florina said, pointing over her shoulder.

He grimaced. "Of course." He turned, watching the three of them. "Er… I hate to ask, but…"

"I'll be happy to show you to the chapel," Farina said with a smile.

Fiora nudged her. "You don't know where the chapel is, either."

"Shush."

Florina stepped forward, trying not to shake her head. " _I_ can show you the way, Raven." She looked back at her sisters. "I'll meet you two in the stables."

Farina pouted, but Fiora took her arm and dragged her away before she could protest. Florina briefly glanced up at Raven, trying to determine how he was responding to Farina's flirting, before leading him down the hallway. She kept a good distance between them, which he seemed fine with.

"So, the stables?" Raven asked, breaking the silence. "Going for a flight?"

Florina managed not to start at his voice. She looked up at him, noticing the trepidation in his eyes. _He's trying to make small talk,_ she realized. _Priscilla and Lucius must be making progress getting him to open up_.

"Oh—yes," she explained. "Lord Hector needed someone to get Mark's letter this week, and I volunteered." She smiled a little. "My sisters arrived with the group from Ilia yesterday. I thought it would be fun to all go together."

He nodded. "That does sound nice. Spending time with siblings, I mean." He paused a moment. "You said I'd met your sisters before?"

She looked up at him in surprise; he'd seemed to recognize them earlier, but maybe he was faking it. "That's right. They fought against Nergal, remember?" She hesitated. "Farina picked you up when you were surrounded in the swamp?"

He blinked in recognition. "Oh! Right." He turned down his eyes. "Sorry."

"It's all right." She coughed. "You did seem a little… distracted back then."

Raven smiled. _"_ That's a polite way of saying I was behaving like an ass."

"N-no!" she stammered quickly. "That is… I mean..."

He chuckled. "Don't worry about it. I am trying to be a little more… sociable, though."

She swallowed back her embarrassment, and managed to smile up at him. "I think you're succeeding."

He was silent a moment. "Thanks," he said softly.

They reached the staircase and started down.

"Speaking of sisters," Florina began, "how is yours?"

"She's doing as well as can be expected, considering she's growing a human being inside her belly." He sighed. "I can't begin to imagine her discomfort, yet still she seems possessed of infinite patience."

"She does seem to be handling it well," Florina agreed. "Though she's lucky. She has you and Hector taking care of her."

Raven flinched at the name. He rubbed his thumb over the seal on the letter. "That's kind of you to say," he muttered.

She seemed to pick up on his mood, and pulled away a little. They reached the bottom of the stairs. "Growing up with two sisters," she said softly, "I sometimes wondered what it would be like to have a brother."

He looked down at the letter.

She considered saying more, but was saved from having to. "Ah. We're here."

Raven stopped short, looking up in surprise. As if it was possible to miss the giant wooden doors leading to the castle chapel. "Oh," he said. "I—see."

Florina pushed open the doors to the chapel. Serra was there, visible through the pews; she actually looked pious, kneeling before the statue of Saint Elimine, head bowed and eyes shut, fingers interlaced before her. Raven went to tap her shoulder, but Florina stopped him with a touch. "If she is praying, better to let her finish," she whispered.

Raven looked down at her hand, surprised, but nodded his agreement. "Sorry," he whispered again.

_Always apologizing. Like me. It's better than glowering at everything, in any case._

Serra rose at last, turned, and nearly walked into the two of them before looking up. "Raven!" she gasped, flinching back. "Florina! What are you doing here?"

"Looking for you," Raven said. He held up the letter. "This arrived. It's just addressed to the castle, but Hector gave it to me, and..." He frowned. "It just… didn't feel right, opening it without you."

Serra blinked, then looked closer at the letter. She gasped. "Lucius?"

He nodded.

She snatched the letter from him, breaking the seal and unrolling it immediately. She turned and held the paper so he could read it as well. Florina started to turn away, feeling like she was intruding, but before she could make it to the door, Serra gasped in delight. "Florina!" the cleric squealed.

Florina looked back. "What?"

Serra held up the letter, grinning like a schoolgirl. "He's coming back," she breathed. "Lucius is coming back."

"That's not all," Raven added, nearly snatching the letter back from her. He pointed to a line further down the page. "He achieved his objective. Renault is coming with him."


	14. Chapter 14

_~~Day 55~~ What’s the point of counting? I’m no longer a captive, so it makes little sense to still count the days of my captivity. Meanwhile, I can count on one hand the number of morphs who remain free in the fort. And by now, that number may have fallen to zero._

It took Mark a good ten heartbeats to register what Gavin had said. It only took five for Gavin to appear at his side, grabbing his arm. “What are you waiting for?” he growled, glaring at Mark. “We need to go before—”

He suddenly yanked Mark’s arm, sending the tactician stumbling toward the window—just in time, as Mark felt his trousers catch on the tip of a blade. He looked over his shoulder to see Luther striking from where they knelt on the ground, the morph’s face impassive. Gavin glided behind the rider, flipping his blade over in his hand, and struck Luther in the back of the neck with the handle. Luther collapsed again, this time without a sound.

“—Before _that_ happens,” Gavin growled. He knelt, checking Luther’s pulse. “They’ll be all right. At least they won’t be raising the alarm this way.”

Mark finally gathered enough wits to shut his mouth, which had been hanging open since Gavin threw the first knife. “What are you doing?”

Gavin glared at him. “What kind of question is that? I’m trying to save you. Do you want to argue about it, or do you want to survive?”

He didn’t exactly want to argue about it. He quickly joined Gavin, who was already starting back toward the window. “Sorry,” he said. “I’m just… confused.”

Gavin grunted. “When I realized nearly everyone in the fort had reverted, it didn’t take long to figure out Peleus was causing it. I listened in to discern his plans. I was hoping to figure out a way to stop him, but when I heard him say it was time to move on Cassandra, I knew you’d be in danger. I had to get you out.” He glanced at Mark. “Not to sound prudish, but if you’d slept in your own quarters last night, we’d be riding out the gate by now.”

Mark barely remembered to blush. “But why save me?”

“Because we’re _friends,_ you blistering idiot.”

Mark could only gape at him once more. Gavin leaned out the window, glancing around. “Street’s clear, for now. Peleus and his entourage will be heading in the opposite direction. This is our chance.” He glanced back at Mark. “What’s the matter?”

“Nothing,” Mark replied, forcing his jaw to close. “I just… thank you.”

Gavin went first, showing Mark the handholds he used on the way down. It was slow going for the tactician to scramble down the stones of the wall, but it was quieter and less painful than just jumping would have been. He wondered belatedly if he should have left his bag behind, but the idea of leaving his diary when he was already losing everything else seemed unthinkable. By the time he reached the ground, Gavin had already scouted the surrounding alleys. “This way,” he said, motioning down a path.

Mark followed after. They reached the end of the alley, and Gavin held up his hand. “Street’s not clear,” he muttered, peering around the corner.

Mark pursed his lips. “I wish I’d grabbed my cloak. It’d be easier to move around if—”

Gavin was already gone. Mark barely had time to be surprised before he heard a distant thud and a muffled cry. Gavin reappeared, tossing a black cloak at him. “I know it’s not your color,” he whispered, “but it’ll be harder to recognize you this way. You’re lucky most of us wear cloaks.”

Mark stared at the cloak uncertainly. “Whose...”

“You’re better off not knowing.”

That was probably true. Mark pulled on the cloak, and the two of them moved out into the street. After getting used to the bustle of the fort, the street seemed shockingly empty. No morphs going about their daily business, no circles of gossip, no carts trundling through. He wasn’t sure why Gavin had said it wasn’t clear, until he spotted the guards at the end of the street. He didn’t recognize their faces from here, and hopefully they wouldn’t recognize him. He could still feel their gazes drilling into him until Gavin gave him a surreptitious nudge and they started down another side street.

“Your walk is all wrong,” the assassin hissed.

Mark almost stopped in the alley. “My _walk?_ ”

“Shoulders square, long strides, eyes forward. A morph moves with purpose, only looking around as needed to avoid obstacles and evaluate potential threats. If they see you glancing around like a nervous squirrel, they’ll know you’re not one of them.”

Mark didn’t dare argue. He did his best to emulate Gavin’s stride, keeping his directions in mind as they continued down the street. “What’s the plan?” he asked quietly.

“Rescue the tactician and have him figure something out,” Gavin replied. He glanced at his companion with a shrug. “That’s as far as I got.”

“Of course.” Mark pinched the bridge of his nose. “All right. We don’t stand a chance against Peleus if we don’t—”

A fireball exploded against the bricks on his left. Mark instinctively threw himself to the ground, looking up to see Gavin drawing blades and whirling around. A silhouette stood at the street’s entrance, a figure with one arm extended and a tome held open in the other. Wind whipped at the bottom of the morph’s cloak—no, not a cloak; a dress.

Gavin went still. “No.”

Ellain strode forward, holding out her arm. The scowl on her face sent ice shooting through Mark’s veins. “Surrender, Gavin,” she called. “Hand him over.”

Gavin positioned himself between the Mark and Ellain as the tactician scrambled to his feet. “I can’t do that,” he called. Mark noted the waver in the assassin’s voice.

Fire blossomed to life around Ellain’s hand. “Last chance,” she said warningly. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

Gavin paused at those words. “You don’t?” he asked, sounding genuinely surprised.

Her brow furrowed. “Of course I don’t. But I can’t let you hurt Mark, either.”

Mark could almost see the tension slip from Gavin’s shoulders. The assassin slipped his blades back into their sheaths. “You’re still you,” he said in a cracked voice.

Ellain wavered, and dropped her hand. “You’re… still you?”

He nodded, and she was upon him an instant later, arms around his neck, body trembling. “I thought I was the last,” she sobbed. “I thought...”

Mark felt the urge to look away as Gavin gingerly returned her embrace. “You’re not,” he whispered back. “You’re not the last.” He looked over at Mark. “Now we are three.”

Nobody else seemed to have heard the brief confrontation with Ellain, nor the tears shed afterward—even Gavin couldn’t help a few sobs. Mark leaned against a wall, considering the situation, as Gavin and Ellain spoke nearby in hushed tones. Mark couldn’t help but steal the occasional glance at them; it was obvious Gavin was besotted with Ellain, but her feelings toward him were harder to pin down. She had her hands on his shoulders, looking down as she spoke. Whatever she said made Gavin stiffen, eyes wide. “No,” he said, loud enough for Mark to hear. “No, I won’t—I can’t—”

She put a hand on his cheek, and he stilled. She whispered to him, tears forming in each of their eyes. Mark suddenly realized he’d been staring, and forced himself to look away—but not before he saw Gavin give a slow, reluctant nod. When he looked back, they were approaching him, hand in hand. “Sorry for the delay,” Ellain said, wiping away a tear. “We’re ready.”

As much as Mark wanted to know what they’d discussed, they had more pressing matters. He immediately pushed for rescuing Cassandra, both for emotional and practical reasons; freeing her was the fastest and surest way to undo Peleus’s entire plan. Unfortunately, he eventually had to admit it was beyond them. “Peleus will have her heavily guarded,” Gavin pointed out. “Even if he doesn’t know you escaped, he’d still want to ensure Cassandra couldn’t break free.”

“We have to save her,” Mark replied, even knowing he was losing the battle.

“We will,” Ellain promised. “But not right away. We need help first.”

Fortunately, there was help to be found. As Mark had surmised, Peleus’s morphs had been reverting others, continuing his work even as he rested. There was nobody left but Gavin, Ellain, Cassandra—and Grace.

“Peleus has had full access to Grace,” Mark said slowly when Gavin first brought it up. “Do you really believe he hasn’t turned her yet?”

“I _know_ he hasn’t.” Gavin resumed walking, heading back toward Mark’s building. “I overheard him talking to the other healers; he’d already reverted them, but still needed to draw on their knowledge. Since morphs were never able to conceive until after Cassandra freed us— _years_ after, for that matter—he believes the same thing you do, that freeing our minds must have affected our bodies.”

Ellain gasped softly. “And if he reverts Grace while she’s pregnant...”

Gavin nodded grimly. “There’s no telling what would happen to the child. They talked over a dozen potential outcomes before Peleus decided it wasn’t worth the risk. He intends to keep Grace under guard until she delivers.”

“But… why does Peleus even want the child to live?” Mark asked. “Doesn’t pregnancy go against all the ‘true purpose’ stuff he’s going on about?”

Gavin shrugged. “I don’t know. And I don’t think we _want_ to know.”

Ellain nodded grimly. “I can get us into the infirmary. Pregnant or not, Grace is a powerful magician. She can help us—and whatever Peleus’s plans, we certainly can’t let him have her.”

Mark’s hands curled into fists. “If she’s also under guard, then—”

“I know what you’re going to say,” Gavin said softly, “but the situation’s different. Peleus has underestimated Grace. He has guards on the infirmary, and healers keeping an eye on her inside. Cassandra is guarded by some of the strongest morphs in the fort.”

Mark squeezed his eyes shut. The tactical decision was obvious, and even he had to admit it.

Saving Grace didn’t make up for not being able to save Cassandra, but it was at least something they could do. Still, there was one more target they needed to acquire if they were going to save everyone.

“We can’t do a thing without the red book,” Ellain murmured.

“We can’t do a thing _with_ the red book,” Mark pointed out. “Only Cassandra knew how to read the code.”

Gavin pursed his lips. “True, but she learned on her own. With time, we could do the same.”

“Perhaps,” Ellain ventured, “we could even seek a little scholarly help?”

Gavin stiffened, and it took Mark a moment to understand why. “Wait,” the tactician said, “are you saying we should go to Ostia?”

“I’m saying we _must_ go to Ostia,” Ellain said. “Besides the three of us and two captives, Peleus has the entire fort under his thumb. Even with the book, we’re not going to be able to free everyone without help.”

Mark nodded. “My letter’s due today. Whoever Hector sent as a messenger, we can meet up with them, enlist their aid, and at least make it to the outpost, if not Ostia proper.”

“The humans will kill all of us first,” Gavin muttered.

“No,” Mark replied firmly. “I won’t let them.”

Gavin met his gaze. “Do you really think you can stop them?”

“Yes.” The conviction with which he spoke surprised even him. “If I promise you protection, Hector will honor it. I swear.”

Both morphs looked at him a moment, then at each other. “All right,” Ellain said softly. “Then we have our targets.”

“All we need is a plan.” Gavin turned to look at Mark.

They both did.

“Right,” he muttered. “Tactician.” He cleared his throat. “Here’s what I’m thinking...”

Ten minutes later, Ellain hauled a bruised and bloodied Mark up the steps to the infirmary. He stumbled along after her, wincing at the rope bound tight around his wrists. Two guards stood by the infirmary door, members of Amora’s squad. They drew their weapons when they spotted Mark—and immediately sheathed them when they met Ellain’s eyes. Mark couldn’t blame them. The few glares she’d shot him on the way over had been searingly cold; her eyes were like twin golden daggers, with no sign of the woman he once knew reflected in their blades.

Ellain stopped a few paces before the door, tugging on the rope to make Mark trip up the stairs. “I’ve caught the human,” she sneered. “He needs healing. I was a little… _rough_ with him.”

The guard on the left frowned. “Peleus said to kill him.”

“Peleus!” Ellain snapped. “Peleus is—” She paused, taking a breath, and put on a sweet smile. “Peleus has his heart in the right place, but he’s exhausted after restoring morphs all night. Not thinking straight. This human presents the same problem he always has: killing him means bringing the Lycian League down on our heads.”

“But Peleus wants—”

“He wants to fight them, of course,” Ellain replied, waving her hand. “But not before we’re ready. Don’t worry, I’ll straighten it out with him when he wakes.” She glanced at Mark, and her smile vanished. “In the meantime, I’m taking him to be healed. His face is offensive enough without blood smeared all over it.”

Mark withered under her gaze. The morphs cast a glance at each other, then stepped aside, the one on the left opening the door for her. “As you command,” he said.

Ellain strode through, tugging Mark along behind her. They swept through the darkened hallway; only when the door slammed did Ellain drop the rope, falling to her knees and hugging herself tightly. “Gods,” she whispered, body shaking. “I _hate_ this part of myself.”

Mark wrested his hands free of the bonds, which Ellain had tied to look convincing, but come free easily with a good twist of the wrists. He laid one hand on Ellain’s shoulder. “I’m sorry you had to do that,” he whispered back.

She looked up at him, and forced a smile onto her face. He felt a surge of relief at seeing her eyes back to normal. _She’s so good at playacting, she could very well be reverted already. She could be steering Gavin and I into a trap._

He didn’t believe the thought, but he couldn’t dismiss it either.

“Well, I suppose I shouldn’t be complaining,” Ellain said, brushing herself off and starting to rise. “You’re the one who had to get punched.”

Mark grimaced. “True,” he said, gingerly touching his face. “I didn’t think you had to make it quite so hard, though.”

“Sorry,” she said, checking his face. “Gavin could have probably done a better job, but he made it clear he didn’t want to hit you.” She patted his cheek. “Guess he likes you.”

 _Because we’re_ friends _, you blistering idiot._

“Guess so,” Mark said with a grimace. “Maybe Grace will heal me after we get out of here.”

Ellain squared her shoulders. “Then let’s get to it.”

Mark remained hidden in the doorway, watching quietly as Ellain marched into the infirmary proper. There were five healers, all reverted, clustered in the corner of the room. Two of them had light tomes tucked under their arms, keeping one eye on Grace in case she tried to escape. Grace herself was lying in one of the beds, unrestrained, but the way her eyes darted around the room told Mark she was on the lookout for any means of escape.

Each pair of golden eyes snapped to Ellain as she entered, but she waved them away. “I need to interrogate her,” she said briskly.

“About what?” one of them asked.

Ellain glared at them. “If you needed to know that, you would.” She snatched a handful of staves off the rack on the wall, seemingly at random, and crossed the room to Grace’s bed wearing her sweetest, deadliest smile. “And how are we today, dear?”

Grace sat up a little, eyeing both Ellain and the fire tome she still carried. “Ellain,” she said softly, “this isn’t you. Fight it.” Mark flinched at the hoarseness in her voice; she must have been making similar arguments all day.

“Oh, but it _is_ me,” Ellain said, raising her nose. Mark only caught the waver in her voice because he was listening for it. “The real me. The me I was always meant to be.” She positioned herself between Grace and the other healers, shielding her from their view, and carefully held out one of the staves. “I think you know what to do with this,” she whispered.

Grace’s eyes widened a hair; she didn’t look down at the staff, nor did she ask what was going on. Mark let out a relieved breath as she took it and gave Ellain a slow nod. The other woman returned the nod, then spun, thrusting an identical staff toward the cluster of healers. “Sleep!” she commanded.

“Sleep,” Grace rasped at the same time, her own staff glowing to life alongside Ellain. The two morphs holding the tomes dropped immediately. Mark’s fists clenched with triumph. Sleep staves were notoriously unreliable when used on an unwilling target, but in the hands of users as skilled as Ellain and Grace, they still packed a punch.

The three remaining healers sprang into action almost immediately, two of them diving for the fallen tomes while the third ran for the door, already shouting for the guards outside. The sleep staves flared up again, but only one morph fell, the other managing to scoop up a tome and flip it open. Ellain twisted out of the way of a burst of concentrated light; Grace could only roll to the opposite side of the bed.

The morph running for the entrance reached the doorway, where he met Mark’s fist. The healer stumbled back, nose bleeding. Mark cracked his knuckles, grinning; it felt good to finally, _finally_ draw blood from an opponent. “That’s right,” he said, raising his fists once more. “Try calling for help with a broken nose.”

The morph swung a staff at him, and Mark barely jumped back in time. “Or you could do that,” he admitted.

Across the room, Ellain had dropped the staff and snapped open her own tome. Fire balls and light beams streaked across the room at each other. Grace, cowering behind her bed, raised her staff once more. “ _Sleep,_ ” she growled. “ _Sleep_ already.” At last, the morph crumpled, tome spilling to the floor. Grace spun toward Mark, and the staff flared one last time; the morph he was fighting fell to the ground mid-swing, staff clattering away on the stones.

Mark slowly lowered his fists, finding he was panting. “Thanks,” he said to Grace.

She cast the staff aside; its gem had gone dull, indicating its charge was spent. She rose to her feet, one hand under her swollen stomach. “I didn’t think anyone would come,” she whispered.

Ellain seized her in an embrace, maneuvering around her belly. “Then you don’t know us very well.”

Grace pulled away, looking over Mark. “Are you all right?”

“I’m fine, actually,” Mark replied, rubbing his bruised cheek. “This is from Ellain.”

Grace frowned, going to get a heal staff from the wall. “What did he do?” she asked as she began healing his face.

“Nothing,” Ellain laughed. She went to the cabinet, taking out a few bottles. “But I had to rough him up a bit to convince the guards I was on their side.”

Mark nodded, lips pursed. “Peleus seems to think I’ve outlived my usefulness.”

“Whereas he seems to think mine’s just beginning,” Grace growled. “I’ve no idea what he wants with my baby, but I’m _not_ letting him have it.”

“We all feel the same, dear,” Ellain said, picking up one of the fallen light tomes and handing it to Grace. “Come with us.”

Grace took the tome, sparing a glance for the unconscious healers—people she’d called colleagues until a day ago—before following them toward the back door. “You have a plan?” she asked.

Mark nodded. “We do. As long as Gavin—”

He pushed open the back door, and found himself staring into the silver glint of an arrow. Denning stood there, hood up and bow drawn, lips quirked in a smile. “This is a message from Lord Nergal. ‘I await you at the Dread Isle.’”

Ellain seized Mark’s arm and yanked him away. “Behind me!” she shouted, opening her tome. “Both of you!”

“No!” Grace lunged forward, placing herself between bow and tome. She raised a hand to each of them. “Stop!”

Denning’s eyes narrowed, and his smile vanished. “This is a message from Lord Nergal.”

Grace’s eyes teared up as she turned to him. “Denning? Denning, love, it’s me.”

The arrow shifted to point at her head. “‘I await you at the Dread Isle.’”

Ellain and Mark both moved forward, but Grace held her hand up higher, not turning from her husband. “Denning. I know how awful it is. Not only is your mind no longer your own, you can’t even _speak_ your mind anymore.” She slowly lifted a hand, cupping is cheek; he flinched, but did not move away. “But I know you’re still in there,” she whispered. “We’ll save you. I swear, we’ll find a way to save you.”

“This is a message...”

Mark eyed the bow. _Peleus said he was experimenting on Denning. If he was fully reverted, shouldn’t he have fired by now?_

“I have to go,” she went on, voice breaking as tears rolled down her cheeks. “I want to stay with you, but I can’t. My baby… _our_ baby...” She looked down, placing a hand on her belly. “I have to get to safety. Then we’ll come back for you. I promise.”

The arrowhead wavered. “The… dread...”

“Denning?” Mark stepped forward.

The morph lowered the bow, trembling all the way. His gold eyes fixed on Grace’s. “This is a message,” he croaked. He put a hand on her cheek. “I await you.”

Grace’s body shook with a sob.

He knelt down, placing his hand over hers. “ _I await you,”_ he whispered to her belly.

He stood and pressed himself against the wall, squeezing his eyes shut. Grace stood petrified for a moment, then rushed past him, stumbling out the door. Ellain followed, Mark bringing up the rear. Denning’s grip on his bow tightened as the human passed, and Mark hurried on.

“Can’t he come with us?” Grace sobbed.

“Not like this,” Ellain whispered, hurrying down the street. “He’s still struggling. You saw it.”

“We’ll come back for him,” Mark said, surprised at the thickness of his own voice. “Just like you said. We’ll come back and save him.”

Grace nodded.

Ellain met his eyes. “We’ll come back for Cassandra, too,” she promised.

Mark turned away. “Keep moving,” he said, ignoring the press of tears at his eyes.

Gavin slithered through the window to Peleus’s room, pushing apart the shutters with barely a rattle as he slid between them. His eyes fixed on Peleus’s sleeping form. Letting more light into the room was a risk, but as Peleus had said himself, the healer-turned-tyrant was exhausted. He slept right through Gavin’s entry, softly snoring on his simple bed. Gavin slid to the floor, rolled onto a woven rug, and rose silently to his feet, glancing around. The room was no bigger than Gavin’s own, which was no bigger than Mark’s new accommodations. There was a cloak rack in one corner; some staves scattered about the floor; a bookshelf sagging under anatomy texts and magic tomes. No sign of anyone else in the room.

He slid the shutters closed again, drowning the room in darkness. He waited a moment, keeping one eye on the sleeping Peleus and the other eye on the door, before creeping toward the desk. The satchel was hanging off the back of the chair; the corner of the blue book peeked out of it, while the red book was open on the table. Gavin gently closed the red book and slid it into the satchel, carefully lifting it from the chair and pulling the strap onto his shoulder. He allowed himself a satisfied smile before starting back toward the window.

Muffled voices and distant footsteps sounded in the hall. Gavin’s eyes snapped to the window. Opening the shutters and closing them behind him would take too long, and if he left them open, whoever came in would know he’d been there. He slid the satchel under the bed, rolling after it a moment later. Holding onto it was a risk; if Peleus noticed it was gone, he was good as caught. But they needed the red book to have a hope of saving everyone. He didn’t dare let it go.

The voices arrived outside the door and fell silent, replaced by a sharp rapping. The bed above him creaked as Peleus stirred. “What?” the healer groaned.

The door opened. From beneath the bed, Gavin could see two pairs of greaves enter the room. “Forgive me,” someone said—Amora? “But we may have a problem.”

“What is it?” Peleus’s stockinged feet appeared on the floor.

“Ellain just arrived at the infirmary. She had the human prisoner with her.”

“Mark?” Peleus rose and moved over to the rack. “I told Luther to kill him.”

“Yes. Ellain claimed she’d intervened to prevent an attack from Ostia.”

Peleus stopped. “Has she been restored?”

“She seemed to be.”

Gavin held his breath.

“But none of us know who restored her, or when,” Amora finished.

Peleus cursed. “Then she’s acting against us. She must be stopped.”

Gavin squeezed his eyes shut. _Damn it. They kept better track of who they’d reverted than we hoped._

“Did Ellain rescue Mark herself?” Peleus asked.

“Doubtful. We went to check Cassandra’s quarters after the infirmary guards reported their arrival. Luther was unconscious, and had a knife wound.”

She maintained a flat tone as she delivered her report. _Damn you, Amora. Be angry. Be excited. Be anything!_

“Gavin,” Peleus sighed.

“He and Ellain are the only ones unaccounted for,” Amora confirmed. “He must have snuck by us somehow.”

“The thief and the whore,” Peleus muttered. Gavin felt his bile rise. “They deserve each other.”

“They must be trying to escape, but even if they got out the front gate—”

“They’d need horses to make it anywhere.” Peleus’s cloak swept around his feet, and he began pulling on a pair of boots. Gavin could just glimpse his face as he bent down to fasten the buckles. “Send extra guards to the gate and the stables. We’ll catch them before they even mount up.”

Boots and greaves marched toward the door, which slammed shut. Gavin slowly slid out from under the bed, careful not to make too much noise, pulling the satchel out after him. He started toward the window once more. _Gods willing, the others will have made it to the stables before Peleus can set up his ambush. But I still need to get to the gate and somehow evade capture until—_

He somehow missed the steps right up until the door opened. “Forgot my satchel,” Peleus said over his shoulder as he entered the room. “I shouldn’t let those books out of my—”

He froze the moment he spotted Gavin. “You.”

Gavin’s hands clenched into fists. “Me,” he hissed back.

He leapt out the window before Peleus could call for the guards. He tucked the satchel under his arm and struck the ground hard, rolling to disperse the impact. He ended on his feet and sprinted down the way, cloak whipping behind him. Stealth had failed. Now he could rely only on speed.

Ellain marched up to the guards standing in front of the stable entrance, and thrust forward an open bottle of purple liquid. “Smell this,” she commanded.

The two morphs—one man, one woman—looked at each other.

Ellain stiffened. “Have you forgotten where I fall in the chain of command? I told you to smell this, and _you will smell it.”_

The morphs should have been incapable of fear, yet Mark almost thought he saw them flinch at her tone. They leaned forward, carefully sniffing the bottle. The man fell first, the woman collapsing on top of him a moment later.

“Excellent,” Ellain said, recorking the bottle. “Still potent.” She smiled down at the unconscious morphs. “Thank you for testing it for me.”

Mark and Grace emerged from where they’d been hiding, carefully crossing the street to the stable. Mark and Ellain dragged the unconscious morphs inside, hiding them in an unoccupied stall, as Grace checked the building for more guards. The stables were small compared to the ones at Castle Ostia, and only half the stalls were currently full. There were two wyverns and three pegasi, and a handful or horses besides. Once they’d confirmed they were alone, the three of them began looking for viable mounts. Ellain stroked Percy’s mane. “I’m sorry about Moriel,” she whispered to him. “I swear to you, I’ll get her back.”

Mark looked over a horse, recognizing the markings. This was the one who’d nearly thrown Ellain while he was delivering his first letter to Matthew. “Maybe not this one,” he muttered.

“No,” Ellain called, flouncing over. “I’ll take him.” She smiled at Mark as she patted the horse’s nose. “We actually work quite well together, now that he’s gotten to know me.”

Grace was eyeing the horses with trepidation. “Should I even be riding?” she asked, looking at her belly.

Mark grimaced. “Probably not. But honestly, we don’t have a choice. We can’t hope to escape on foot; they’ll run us down as soon as they realize we’ve gone.”

“You’ll be all right, dear,” Ellain said, taking Grace’s hand and guiding her to a large brown horse. “Here. This one’s not the fastest, but he rides smoothly. He won’t let anything happen to you or your baby.”

“Do you know how to ride?” Mark asked as Ellain helped Grace up.

“Not as well as how to heal, but better than how to fight,” Grace replied. “What about you?”

Mark turned to the black horse Ellain had directed him toward. “It’s ride or die, right? I’ll figure something out.”

Grace seemed unconvinced, but they didn’t have much time—or any other options. They tacked up the chosen horses, plus one for Gavin that they hitched to Mark’s. Mark hauled himself up onto his horse’s back, taking the reins. “Ready?” he asked.

“Gavin should be in position by now,” Ellain mused. She was still on the ground; she’d have to open the doors before mounting up for them to escape. “If nothing went wrong.”

“I’m sure he’s fine,” Grace said, reaching down to pat the other woman’s shoulder.

Ellain looked up at her with a smile. “You’re _pregnant_. Shouldn’t I be comforting you?” She nodded at Mark. “Yes, we’re ready. It’s now or never.”

She started toward the front doors, only to stop. “Footsteps,” she whispered.

The doors were ripped open from the outside. Ronic and Bennet strode into the stables in full armor, with Deichtine, Moriel, and—Mark flinched—Luther behind them. “Surrender,” Ronic said, leveling his lance at them. “The morphs won’t be harmed. The human—”

Ellain’s fireball caught him full in his armored chest, sending him sprawling to the ground. “Go!” she screamed as she readied another spell. “I’ll hold them off!”

Grace shook her head. “We can’t leave—”

“ _Go!”_

Mark hissed out a curse, and spurred his horse on with a shout. The black beast surged forward, jumping over the fallen Ronic and staying just out of Bennet’s reach. Hoofbeats started up behind him, and he turned to find the extra horse following closely, with Grace right on their tail, looking back at Ellain with sorrow in her golden eyes. He couldn’t keep his eyes off the road long enough to see how the fight was going; he steered hard to the right, taking them down a side street instead of going straight for the gate, plotting their course on his mental map of the fort. “Come on,” he shouted to Grace. “We’re almost there.”

A few turns later, they emerged from the shadows into the open area in front of the gate. A company of morphs had gathered in the main thoroughfare, expecting them to come from that direction, but Mark’s roundabout route had put them well out of reach. The morphs still rushed forward, but Mark and Grace were halfway to the gate before they could even draw their weapons. Mark spurred his horse even faster. _Come on, Gavin,_ he silently pleaded. _Come on…_

As they approached the gates, Mark spotted unconscious morphs lying before them—and Gavin in their midst, a swirl of cloak and daggers. The instant he saw the horses, he sheathed his weapons and dashed to the gate, pulling with all his strength on one of the heavy wooden doors. Mark let out a shout of victory as it swung slowly open. He and Grace leaned into their steeds, pounding forward until they passed through the gate. He quickly pulled back on the reins, bringing his horse to a stop, and looked back at the gate. Gavin’s silhouette appeared there, with a familiar-looking satchel over his arm. Mark waved to him. “Come on!” he shouted, motioning to the extra horse.

Gavin stepped forward—and stopped. “Where’s Ellain?” he called.

Mark’s blood froze. “She’s still at the stables,” he answered truthfully. “She distracted them to—”

Gavin turned away, facing the morphs rushing toward them. Mark’s eyes widened. “Gavin!” he called. “There’s no time!”

“She stayed so we could escape, Gavin!” Grace added. “It was her choice!”

“And this is mine!” came the reply. Without turning to look, Gavin flung the satchel toward them, its strap trailing behind as it arced through the air. Mark’s arm snapped up, and he somehow managed to grasp the strap before the bag struck the ground. Glancing down, he saw the two books, blue and red, sitting securely in the bag. He looked back at the fort; past Gavin, the oncoming group of morphs had been joined by Deichtine and Luther, who were astride their own horses. _No. Ellain…_

Gavin vanished, and the gate began to grind shut again a moment later. Mark started for him when he felt Grace’s hand on his sleeve. “We have to go,” she said. “They’ll be on us in moments. Gavin, Ellain, Denning, Cassandra—they’re all counting on us. We have to _go!”_

He knew she was right. That didn’t help the pit in his heart as he turned his horse away. They rode as fast as they dared, the gates finally slamming shut behind them.

Ellain could barely feel Peleus’s hand as he lifted her chin, examining her bloodied face. “You didn’t have to hit her so hard,” he chastised.

“She didn’t have to cast so many fireballs at us,” Bennet growled from behind her. He tightened his grip on her shoulder, keeping her on the ground. Her tome lay on the other side of the stable, Ronic standing over it with a glower.

Peleus tilted his head. “I suppose that’s true,” he said.

Ellain spat blood onto his feet. “And you didn’t have to enslave everyone I care about,” she said. “I guess we’ve all made mistakes today.”

Peleus’s gaze hardened. “I tire of this,” he said, releasing her face and standing up. “Grace, Cassandra, Luther, and even you. Can none of you see I’m trying to help you? I’m returning what Cassandra took from us, giving her what she was denied all along. I—”

Another glob landed on his boots. “I’ve plenty of blood and plenty of spit,” Ellain growled. “Let’s see if I run out before you run out of breath.”

He was actually trembling now. “You don’t deserve my help,” he hissed. “None of you do.” He waved a hand. “Take her.”

Bennet hauled Ellain to her feet. Her eyes flicked to the shadows of a nearby stall. “I won’t go back,” she said.

Peleus shook his head. “Whether you do or don’t, you have no choice in the matter.” He turned to leave as Bennet dragged her after.

She ignored him, keeping her gaze fixed on the shadows. “I _won’t_ go back,” she said again. “I’ll die first.”

The shadows began to quiver.

“Please,” she whispered. “You promised _.”_

Peleus stopped at last, turning to her with a frown. “What are you—?”

Gavin sprang from the stall, dagger drawn. Ellain twisted away from Bennet, flinging herself toward Gavin, chest out.

He shut his eyes as his blade slid into her heart.

The pain slammed into her, searing fire rushing through every vein and artery. She managed not to scream, and forced herself to keep her eyes open. “Thank you,” she whispered to Gavin.

“I’m sorry,” he sobbed. “I’m so—”

A gauntleted hand descended, yanking him into the air and tossing him across the stable. Ellain’s vision blurred as Bennet crossed over to the struggling assassin, and Peleus’s boots appeared in front of her. “Finish him,” came the growled command.

Her eyes widened as darkness descended. “No,” she tried to scream, though only a hoarse whisper came out. “No...”

The last thing she saw was Bennet lifting his blade, as Peleus stood over both of them, staff in hand.

Florina was just barely able to hear her sisters over the sounds of wind and wings. “I’m just wondering,” Fiora called. “You never showed any interest in Raven five years ago. What changed?”

“Hey, just because I wasn’t fawning over him doesn’t mean I wasn’t interested,” Farina replied. She steered her pegasus closer to Fiora’s, making it easier to talk as they soared across the Lycian sky. They’d passed Sanders’s outpost not long before, and the fort had just appeared on the horizon. “We were just a little busy fighting an insane, immortal druid, that’s all.”

Fiora smirked. “Didn’t stop our sister.”

Florina blushed, despite herself. In truth, she and Heath had mostly fallen in love _after_ Nergal’s defeat, when he joined the Caelin knights with Kent’s sponsorship. No point in arguing that, though. “Well, now’s probably not a great time either,” she called, “with Lucius away, Priscilla pregnant, and Mark in captivity.”

“ _Or_ ,” Farina replied with a grin, “now’s the perfect time for someone to swoop in and help him deal with his issues.” She snapped the reins, coaxing her pegasus into a mini-dive to emphasize her point.

Fiora laughed. “That’s not what ‘swoop in’ means.”

“That’s _exactly_ what ‘swoop in’ means.”

Florina glanced at her sisters. “Well, if you’re sure...”

“Who can be sure of anything with men?” Farina shrugged. “But you’re both married, and I’m not getting any younger. It might be time to think of settling down.”

“With a mercenary.”

“Well, being able to take high-paying jobs together would be nice, too.” She ran a hand through her short blue hair. “Besides, red’s a good color on me.”

Florina found herself cringing, but Fiora just laughed. “You never change, sister. I—wait.” She leaned forward in her saddle, peering at the distant ground. “What’s going on down there?”

Florina immediately directed Huey downward, following Fiora’s gaze. She could see the fort clearly now—as well as a number of shapes speeding away from it. Riders, she realized; four of them, two about a quarter mile from the gates, two who were just leaving, plus another horse with a lead line dangling from its reins nearby. Motion caught her eye, and she looked up to see a fifth rider—a pegasus knight, taking off from the middle of the fort and flying after the others.

“We need to get a closer look,” Farina said sternly, the levity of moments ago forgotten. The others nodded their agreement, and Florina spurred Huey to full speed, taking up Farina’s left flank across from Fiora. She peered closely at the figures on the ground, until she could make out details about the riders. The one in front was—

“Is that _Mark?”_ Florina squeaked, eyes widening in shock. “Isn’t he supposed to be a captive?” The tactician was wearing an unfamiliar black cloak rather than his usual brown, a cloth satchel over one shoulder, and a leather one on the other, but Florina would have recognized him anywhere.

“It’s definitely him,” Fiora cried. It was getting harder to hear each other as they sped up, sending more wind rushing past their ears. “He must have escaped. But who’s that with him?”

“Is that a morph?” Farina said, squinting. A moment later, her jaw dropped. “Is that a _pregnant_ morph?!”

Fiora looked equally shocked. “Is she chasing him? No—they’re riding together. Then who—?”

Florina squinted hard at the other riders. They were also morphs; one a muscular woman with short-cropped hair, the other a thin, wiry, androgynous figure, both carrying lances. While Mark and the morph woman with him looked terrified, these two looked… well, she couldn’t tell. Their faces were devoid of all emotion.

She shivered. “I don’t know what’s going on, but we have to help Mark,” she said. “Those riders are gaining on them.” She looked up at the approaching pegasus knight—clearly also a morph, but still a way off. “We’ll have to do this carefully and quickly. Ready?”

Her sisters both shouted their assent, and the three of them dove, unstrapping their lances from their backs. Mark had spotted them by now, and took one hand off the reins to wave frantically. The pregnant woman was also looking up at them with trepidation, but she too reached for them as they approached. They didn’t have long, though; either by virtue of experience, the woman’s pregnancy slowing her down, or merely pushing their horses harder, the pursuers were riding much faster than their quarry, and were upon Mark and the woman before the sisters could reach them. The female rider thrust her lance at Mark; she missed, but the sharpened tip sliced through one of the straps on the leather satchel, sending it falling from his shoulder. He cried out in dismay, reaching for the fallen bag, but another strike from the woman prevented him from going back for it. The wiry one leaned down, deftly snatching the bag from the ground and securing it to their own saddle.

Florina cursed. “I’ll distract the riders!” she shouted, hoping her sisters would continue to follow her lead. “You get Mark!”

She didn’t dare glance back, but Fiora and Farina again shouted their agreement. Florina gritted her teeth and leveled her lance, urging Huey into a dive at the last possible second. Mark ducked as she swooped down on him, leaving her path clear to the woman. The rider looked up, eyes flashing a chillingly familiar gold, just as Florina struck. The rider swerved, but Florina’s lance slammed into her armor, the impact enough to send her tumbling from her saddle and rolling across the ground.

Shouting with delight, Florina glanced over her shoulder. Her sisters were flying alongside Mark, their pegasi flanking his horse. They each reached down and took one of his hands, then pulled up, lifting him from his saddle. Farina rose higher, lifting Mark up and around until she was able to set him down behind Fiora. He clung to the saddle, looking back down at the pregnant woman below. He shouted something, and Farina nodded; the sisters then began to move into position again, ready to repeat the process.

Florina glanced back forward, just in time to see a javelin hurtling toward her. She yelped and swerved to avoid it, the tip glancing off her armor. The other rider came thundering past a moment later, readying another javelin and taking careful aim at Fiora’s mount. Cursing, Florina pulled Huey into a tight turn, readying a javelin of her own. She wasn’t going to be able to stop the morph from throwing, but maybe…

They threw the javelin with inhuman force. She threw hers an instant later, arcing it directly into the path of theirs. The two collided in the air, knocking each other off-course and falling well short of Fiora, who was now rising out of range. Farina ascended as well, casting an uncertain look at the morph woman clinging to her waist.

Florina readied her lance to attack the morph, but rather than pursue or try to throw another javelin, they turned away from the fleeing pegasi, riding over to their fallen comrade. _Thank goodness, they’re giving up. That just leaves…_

She looked up at the approaching pegasus knight, who was closing fast with lance drawn. Florina rose to intercept, drawing her blade instead, and the two pegasi met in a flurry of wings and steel. Cold golden eyes pierced Florina, as the morph—this one surprisingly small, with neck-length hair held up by a feather pin—tried to bring her weapon to bear. Florina beat her back, using the sword for close-quarters combat as the two pegasi struggled to remain airborne.

It had been five years since she’d fought a morph, a being created to do nothing but fight; and while Florina had continued to train and fight for Caelin in that time, she’d never again faced an opponent quite as fierce. The lance jabbed at her unrelentingly, getting closer each time and even managing to parry her own swings, until finally—

Huey screamed. No—it was the morph’s pegasus that screamed. A silver arrow had appeared under its wing. The morph lurched in the saddle as the pegasus suddenly dropped in the air, just barely managing to spread its wings and glide back toward the fort. Florina tried to shake off her shock, scanning the ground for the archer. All she could see was a figure standing on the wall of the fort—another morph, bow drawn, hood up. She peered at him, trying to get a closer look—

 _I recognize him! s_ he realized with a start. _From Ostia! He was the one who—_

“Florina!” came the shout from behind her. She turned to find Fiora hovering some ways away, Mark peering over her shoulder. “We should go before they regroup!”

“Wait!” Mark cried, reaching toward the retreating riders. “We need that satchel!”

Florina turned just in time to see the riders vanish back into the gates. “Sorry, Mark,” she replied. “Fiora’s right. We have to go.”

Mark looked devastated, but he nodded nonetheless. Florina cast one last look back at the morph—the one who’d smiled at her five years ago—before turning to join her sisters. There was still activity in the fort, but no more riders came after them, and the lone archer didn’t loose any more arrows before disappearing behind the wall. With no visible pursuers, they flew toward Sanders’s outpost as fast as their pegasi would allow.

Farina cast one last dubious glance at the morph woman. “Mark,” she called, “you’d better have a damned good explanation for this.”

“It’s a long story,” Mark sighed. “But I promise—I’ll tell you everything. I’ll tell _everyone_ everything.”


	15. Chapter 15

_I’ve failed. I’ve failed everyone._

Darkness had fallen the night before with no sign of the sisters, and as the hours wore on, the whispers began. Lyn had to order Heath not to go out looking for his wife, Matthew was thinking of mobilizing his entire network, and Hector had to put up with Serra fretting about them all evening.

Then midnight brought a messenger, and he brought the news. Florina, Farina, and Fiora had not come directly back due to unforeseen circumstances; they’d been forced to stop at the outpost helmed by Lieutenant Sanders and his men to stay the night.

They had Mark with them.

And that wasn’t all.

By morning, the news had spread through the castle. It had taken a lot of coaxing, but Hector had managed to drive most of the assembled army out of the grand hall for their meeting. All that remained was the usual council of leaders and scholars: the mages, the nobles, some of the knights. Matthew and Raven were there, as they had been since the beginning. And—Hector’s skin crawled at the sight—Jaffar sat across from Matthew, arms crossed, Legault at his side.

Of course, Matthew wasn’t paying attention to Jaffar. His eyes, like every other pair on the room, were fixed on the doors at the front of the room, as they had been ever since the wall guards announced the sisters’ approach. Finally, the massive oak doors swung open, and Oswin stepped in. “Announcing Dames Florina, Fiora, and Farina,” he called. “And Mark.”

Almost before he could finish, Mark was squeezing past the knight into the room. He stumbled forward, grabbing the back of an empty chair, the one directly across from Hector’s. The sisters filed in as Mark gazed around the room, his eyes finally landing on Hector himself. He was still bedraggled from travel, and his gaze had an unsettling intensity to it. “My lord,” Mark said without preamble, “I’ve come to petition your aid in—”

Hector silenced him with one lifted hand. “Stop.”

Mark leaned back from the chair, blinking, but saying nothing. Hector rose from his seat and strode around the table, coming to face Mark directly. He studied the tactician, taking in his dirty face, messy hair, and disarrayed clothes—and seized him in an embrace. “You’re back,” Hector whispered. “You’re _safe_.”

Mark stiffened at his touch, but did not pull away. He put his own arms around Hector, returning the embrace. After a while, he began patting Hector’s back gently—then less gently. “My lord,” he croaked, “I can’t… breathe...”

Hector released him at once, and the poor man nearly collapsed to the ground. Mark rubbed his own shoulders as he took deep breaths. “All these years, and you still don’t know your own strength,” he mumbled.

“And you still don’t know how worried we were,” Eliwood said, seizing the tactician from behind.

Mark’s surprised yelp was stifled by Lyn, who joined the embrace as well. “We thought we’d lost you,” she said softly.

When the others finally released him, Hector stepped forward, laying a hand on Mark’s shoulder. “What happened? How did you escape?” He winced. “How, er, are your ribs?”

“They’re fine,” Mark replied, rubbing his chest just to be sure. “ _I’m_ fine. I just...” he looked back at Eliwood and Lyn. “I didn’t expect such a reception.”

Eliwood grinned like a fool, while Lyn averted her gaze. Mark lowered his head, a blush fighting at the edge of his cheeks. “And I didn’t escape. Well...” He grimaced. “I _sort of_ escaped, but not in the way you mean. A lot has happened since my last letter, and if we’re going to help the morphs, I’ll need to—”

“Help?” a cold voice cut through the conversation. “The morphs?”

Mark jumped, and turned as Hector did to face the speaker. “Do not interrupt him, Jaffar,” Hector growled.

Jaffar didn’t flinch, holding Hector’s gaze. When he looked at Mark, however, something in his face shifted. “Forgive me,” he murmured, turning his eyes down.

Mark blinked. “Jaffar? When did you get here?” He looked around the room then, gazing at each face as though seeing it for the first time. “When did _all_ of you get here?”

Hector opened his mouth to explain when a voice from the door cut him off. “My lords,” Fiora called. “There’s more.”

Hector, tired of interruptions, turned to glare at her—and stopped short. The sisters had someone else with them. When word had arrived from the outpost the night before, Hector hadn’t wanted to believe what he’d read. But now, the proof stood before him.

Farina and Florina each had their hands tucked under the arms of a woman. She was just dirty and disheveled as Mark. Her jet-black hair tumbled to her ears in a storm of curls, and her soft face was turned down, golden eyes fixed on the floor. And then there was the swell of her belly—the reason the party had to rest at the fort instead of flying all the way to Ostia in a single day.

“So it’s true,” Hector whispered. “You brought a morph with you. A _pregnant_ morph.”

It took five minutes for Hector to herd everyone back to their seats. Mark sat across from him, fidgeting nervously. The morph woman was seated next to him, where Serra was currently examining her. Florina had taken up her position by Lyn’s seat, and her sisters had found their own places at the table, ready to report on what they’d seen at the fort. He wasn’t sure how any of them could remain seated, least of all him. He felt like pacing the entire room. Probably kicking his chair over first, for good measure.

“You were a captive for eight weeks,” he spluttered. “ _Eight weeks._ And now you come here with”—he waved his hand at the pregnant woman—“ _this?_ ”

“Considering she appears to be about _twelve_ weeks pregnant,” Serra said briskly, “I’d say Mark had little to do with her condition.”

Mark and the woman glanced at each other before averting their gazes. Mark was blushing a little bit, and—to Hector’s shock—so was she, the red standing out against her pale skin. She cleared her throat. “It’s probably fourteen, actually,” she said in a voice as soft as her features.

Serra arched an eyebrow as she returned to her seat. “Probably?”

The morph’s blush deepened. “My husband and I—”

“ _Husband?_ ” Hector turned to Mark. “What the blasted hell were they doing in that fort?”

“They were _living_ ,” Mark replied. “Growing a garden. Hunting game. Making and selling wares. Falling in love.” He looked at the woman once again. “Having children.”

A smile tugged at the woman’s lips. Not a cruel smile, or a forced smile, or an insane smile—just a smile. “Learning the lute,” she said softly.

“Learning the lute,” Hector echoed. He put a hand to his forehead. “Mark, you’ve spent the last two months surrounded by morphs. They kept you locked in a cell. They watched your every move. We thought they were messing with your head. Instead, they were _learning the lute?_ ”

Mark sat up slowly. “My letters should have made it clear,” he said. “The morphs just want to live in peace.”

Hector fell silent at that. Mark wasn’t just some underling; he was a friend. There was no way Hector could question—

“Mark. We couldn’t be certain of your letters.”

Every eye in the room turned to Lyn, some in surprise, some in solidarity. Mark straightened up. “My lady?”

Lyn didn’t look at him as she spoke. “We all remember how Sonia was able to cloud Brendan Reed’s mind years ago.” There were a few nods around the table. “Even with the messengers checking on you, even with your letters written in your own hand—we couldn’t be sure they weren’t manipulating you.”

Mark’s hand curled into a fist. “Milady, I...”

He trailed off, eyes darkening. Mark was a logical man; he had to admit that Lyn had a point. It still pained Hector to see the look of betrayal on his face.

“In fact,” Matthew said, speaking for the first time since Mark strode through the doors, “can we even be sure of you now?”

Hector shot him a sharp look. “Careful, Matthew.”

“My lord.” Matthew inclined his head. “I merely refer to Mark’s companion.” He pointed at the morph, who tried not to look affronted. “She is, in a sense, an enemy combatant.”

Mark stiffened. “She’s not—”

“I agree,” Raven said. “Even if Mark trusts her, we should be keeping her secure. Just in case.”

The woman eyed him. “By ‘secure,’ you mean ‘captive,’ correct?”

Raven averted his gaze. Hector pursed his lips. Mark clearly trusted the woman, but Hector couldn’t ignore the fact that there was a morph in his meeting hall. “Oswin,” he began, “take the morph—”

“To my chambers,” came a soft voice from behind him.

Hector actually started. He turned in his seat, craning his neck to see Priscilla. He hadn’t heard her enter, but she and her handmaiden were standing directly behind him. She wasn’t in her simple maternity garb, either, but a blue dress with gold trim that looked as regal as she did.

Oswin stirred at Hector’s side. “Milady?”

Priscilla crossed the room as quickly as her swollen belly would allow. She was easily twice as far along as the morph, who actually rose from her own seat, eyeing Priscilla warily. “You’re pregnant,” she said.

Priscilla smiled at her. “As are you.”

The woman’s eyes went down to Priscilla’s belly. “You’re into your third trimester already,” she said. “Are you getting enough nutrition? Enough rest? The baby will need—”

“I’m getting everything I need and more,” Priscilla said, taking the morph’s hand. The woman flinched at the touch, but didn’t draw away. “My chambers have been already practically turned into a nursery. Come with me, and we’ll ensure you’re taken care of.” She waved to Oswin. “In fact, there’s no need to escort us. We can find our way.”

The morph hesitated, glancing around at the table. Oswin glanced at Hector, who rose from his seat. “Darling,” he said softly, “are you certain?”

She smiled at him with steely eyes. “Of course, my love,” she replied. “She’s pregnant, and we happen to be well-equipped to care for pregnant women.”

The morph glanced at Mark, who nodded with a small smile. Finally, she let herself be led away. Priscilla took her out the back door toward the staircase, her handmaiden shutting it behind her.

Matthew glanced at Hector. “You sure—”

“Priscilla’s made up her mind,” Raven interrupted. “She’s not going to change it for any of us.”

Mark looked at Hector, silent, but the triumph was evident in his eyes. The woman was safe, and free, for the time being. Hector wasn’t sure that was a good thing—but it meant she was someone else’s problem, leaving him free to focus on everything else.

“All right,” he said, sitting back down. “Florina says you promised us a story.” He motioned to Mark. “Let’s have it.”

As soon as Grace entered the marchioness’s chambers, the handmaiden took her arm and all but yanked her to a dressing screen. Smooth hands grabbed roughly at her clothes, and she jerked away. The maid held up her hands, eyes softening. “Your clothes are filthy from travel,” she said. “We’ll get you into something clean while they’re washed.”

Grace frowned at the kind words, lowering her arms. She was stripped naked before she knew what was happening, her clothes tossed into a basket and carried away by yet another servant as she was ushered into an adjoining chamber. There was a tub here, already full. The maid tried to lead her toward it, but again, Grace balked. “Hot water isn’t good for the baby,” she said.

The handmaiden rolled her eyes, then offered an apologetic smile when Grace glared at her. “True enough. That’s why this water had been heated to just a few degrees shy of steaming.” She dipped her hands in the water as if to demonstrate. “And it’s been treated with scented oils said to be wonderful for pregnancy. Lady Priscilla takes a bath near every day. It helps with the aches.”

Grace took a sniff at the air, trying to parse some of the oils and salts in the water. She _was_ sore, not just from the aches of pregnancy, but from two rides atop a pegasus, separated only by a fitful night on a cot. Eventually, she agreed, and the maid helped her into the water. She was left to soak for a few minutes, taking the opportunity to wash some of the travel grime from her body, before the maid returned with some towels and a silky robe. When Grace was dry and more-or-less clothed, the maid returned her to the marchioness’s bedchamber, deposited her into a far-too-comfortable dais, and began massaging her feet. Grace wanted to protest this, too, but the woman’s hands felt _so good_ on her aching feet, she decided not to stop her just yet.

Marchioness Ostia was there, seated across from her. She must have changed, because her eye-catching dress had been replaced by a simple red shift. “Thank you, Anastasia,” she said to the handmaiden, who looked up from her work long enough to nod. The marchioness offered Grace a smile. “How are you feeling?”

“Pampered,” Grace responded. It was the first and only word that came to mind. “Is this… are you treated like this every day?”

The red-haired woman shrugged. “Hector… _overreacted_ when he learned I was pregnant. Before the day was over, he’d sent for the best healers in Lycia for advice on prenatal care. I know it seems excessive, but after carrying around a human being in my gut for six months, I’m not going to refuse a little pampering.”

Grace nodded, then hesitated for a moment. _I’m among nobility. Human nobility. How should I act?_ She eventually bowed her head. “Thank you for all of this, Marchioness Ostia. You’re too kind.”

The woman settled back in her seat, regarding her. “What’s your name?”

“Sorry?”

“Your name? I didn’t catch it.”

Grace began fidgeting with her robe. “It’s… Grace, milady.”

“Grace.” A smile spread over the marchioness’s face. “That’s lovely. And my name is Priscilla. Please, just call me that.”

“I see.” Grace glanced down to where Anastasia still massaged her feet, and seemed to be ignoring their conversation. “Lady Priscilla.”

“Well, I—oh, never mind.” Priscilla smiled at her, leaning forward. “You said you were about fourteen weeks along?”

“That’s right,” Grace replied. “Though we’ve only known for about _two_ weeks. I’ve been doing everything I can for the baby since then, though.”

Priscilla nodded. “And the father…?”

“Denning,” Grace answered promptly. “My husband.” She lifted her left hand to show her the ring.

Priscilla’s eyes lit up at the sight. “I’m sorry,” she said quickly, hiding her smile. “It’s just—it still seems so strange.”

Grace felt her jaw tighten. “Strange that morphs can love?”

Priscilla’s smile slowly slid from her face. “Forgive me,” she said softly. “Before today, all the morphs I met were...”

Grace thought of Denning’s cold eyes, the fourteen words, the arrow pointed at her head. “No,” she replied. “You’re right. All you know of us is to fear us.”

“Not anymore,” Priscilla said firmly. She reached for Grace’s hand. “You’ve changed all that.”

Grace frowned. “Have I? The men downstairs look at me and see...” she shrugged. “A monster.”

“They see what they expect to see,” Priscilla insisted. “Matthew trusts nobody by the nature of his job, and my brother trusts nobody by the nature of...” She grimaced. “Well, his nature.”

“And your husband?”

“Hector doesn’t know what to think. Mark’s letters have swayed him, but morphs invaded his home five years ago. Even though the man who controlled them is long dead, that kind of pain is difficult to forget.”

Grace decided it best not to mention that her husband had led that attack.

“But I’m hoping I can make him see what I see,” Priscilla went on, reaching for Grace’s hand.

Grace looked down at the handmaiden, who seemed to be finishing with her feet. “And what is that?” she asked softly.

“A mother-to-be.” Priscilla looked down at her own belly. “One desperate to protect her child.”

Grace stared at Priscilla’s hand, which wavered in the air, for a good ten seconds. She finally reached for it, and the marchioness’s fingers tightened around her own. “The man who did this,” Grace whispered, tears tugging at her eyes. “He used my husband as a test subject. He turned all my friends into slaves. He kept me locked away so he could have my child when it’s born.”

“He won’t get it,” Priscilla said firmly. “He won’t get _you_. And neither will anybody here. You have my word.”

By the time Mark finished his story, every gaze at the table had turned to stone. Hector leaned forward, fingers crossed. “Then our worst fears have come true.”

“No,” Lyn said. “Not our _worst_ fears.” Her eyes flicked to Mark as she spoke, and his chest tightened.

Matthew was unusually still. Serra, Mark realized, was glaring across the table at him. The spy rose abruptly. “Forgive me, milord,” he said. “There’s something I must attend to.”

“Now?” Hector said, eyes narrowing.

“Now.” Matthew turned and left before there could be any further argument. His eyes briefly met Mark’s as the spy passed his chair, and the tactician felt a flash of—something. Friendship? Resentment?

Both?

“That still leaves us with an enemy force within a day’s march of Lycia’s capital,” Raven said as the door shut behind Matthew. “The last time morphs attacked Ostia...”

He didn’t need to finish. They all remembered the harrowing battle—the first time they’d crossed paths with Denning, even if none of them realized it at the time. Pushed to the brink, Hector’s forces had barely been able to survive until reinforcements arrived, and even then, they were just able to push the morphs back by sheer force of numbers.

Florina stirred at Lyn’s side, her gaze flicking to Mark. He recalled suddenly that she’d confronted Denning during that battle. Had she recognized him atop the ramparts as they fled? Why not speak up about it now?

Hector stood up, regarding Mark. “There is only one real question facing us, and only you can provide the answer. While the morphs were under Cassandra’s leadership, and while they had you, they did not attack.” He leaned forward, gaze piercing into the tactician. “What will Peleus do now that he’s in control, and you’re with us?”

Mark opened his mouth to reiterate that the morphs wanted only peace—then forced himself to stop. The _morphs_ wanted to live in peace, it was true. They wanted to make their livings, fall in love, have children. But they were no longer themselves. Peleus’s will—Nergal’s will—was binding them once again. And with that in mind…

Mark shook his head. “I don’t know,” he confessed.

Hector hissed out a breath. “Guess.”

“My lord, I—all right. Look.” Mark rose himself, starting to walk around the table. He had no real destination in mind, but sitting still was unthinkable right now. “Peleus is in control, and he was willing to kill me when Cassandra was not. That much has changed.” He raised a finger. “Here’s what hasn’t changed. The morphs in that fort are not an organized military unit, like the one that attacked here five years ago. They are survivors and stragglers of Nergal’s army. Plus, Ostia’s forces outnumber them, especially if we levy soldiers from the other marchies.”

“So attacking us would be foolish,” Hector surmised.

Mark nodded. “Suicidal, even.”

“Is Peleus suicidal?” It was Raven who growled the question.

Mark’s steps faltered. “He wants to succeed, but...” He began stroking his chin. “If he sees the situation as hopeless, then...”

“If he attacks, we may win in the end,” Raven went on. “But we’ll lose a lot of forces in the struggle.”

 _And all the friends I’ve made in the last eight weeks will be dead._ Mark shivered.

“There’s also the woman to consider,” Lyn spoke up. “She—”

“Grace,” Serra interrupted. “Her name is Grace.”

Lyn looked at her in surprise. So did Mark; he hadn’t realized Serra had taken the time to learn Grace’s name.

“All right,” Lyn went on. “If Peleus was keeping _Grace_ prisoner, there’s a chance he’ll come for her now.”

Mark rubbed the back of his head. “Maybe. It depends on how important she was to his plans.”

“What were his plans for her, anyway?” Hector asked.

Mark lowered his arm. “I don’t know.”

Hector’s frown deepened. “You never used to speak those words. Now they’re becoming your favorites.”

“My lord, I _don’t know._ Peleus wishes to carry out Nergal’s will, but what does that mean? Will he attack Ostia? Will he travel to Valor and attempt to reopen the Dragon’s Gate? Or will he lay low and try to build his forces?” Mark shook his head. “I can’t fathom the motives of a man such as he, try as I might. But that’s not why I’m here.”

Hector frowned. “Well, of course. You’re here because you escaped.”

“No, my—well, yes, my lord. I escaped Peleus.” Mark leaned forward, resting his hands on the table. “But everyone else in that fort is still in danger. Gavin and Ellain risked their lives to buy Grace and I our freedom; I’ve no idea what happened to them. Denning, Moriel, and all the others who Peleus reverted need to be freed. And Cassandra—” He squeezed his eyes shut, unable to even think of it. “They need our help, my lord.” He opened his eyes again, fixing them on Hector. “As I said before. I’ve come to petition your aid in overthrowing Peleus and freeing the residents of the morph fort.”

Silence rang in the hall.

“You’re joking,” Jaffar said.

“No,” Lyn sighed, “he’s not.”

“It’s as we feared,” Raven muttered. “The morphs have brought him over to their side.”

“There is no ‘their side,’” Mark snapped. “Nor an ‘our side.’ Our enemy is Peleus, not the morphs.”

“It wasn’t Peleus who took you captive two months ago,” Hector pointed out. “It was Cassandra.”

“Yes, but things have changed. She’s changed.”

“For your first week, you weren’t allowed to leave your room,” Raven said. “You think what she’s done since then changes that?”

Mark flinched at the reminder. That first week had been hell—but it had also been a long time ago. “Of course it does,” he replied. “She let me out. She made me an administrator—”

“She manipulated you,” Raven spat, rising to his feet. “You must see that.”

“Sit down, Raven,” Hector rumbled. Something dangerous had crept into his eyes.

“My lords,” Canas said, looking worried. “Please, I think we should consider—”

“What, shaman?” Jaffar asked, voice as cold as his gaze. “Do you think we should consider what Mark is saying? Save the morphs? Follow in Nergal’s footsteps?”

Canas stood. “That is uncalled for. Ancient magic is—”

“Dark magic.”

Others started to murmur. Canas blanched. “That’s not—”

“None of this matters,” Lyn interrupted. “Mark’s safety needs to be our priority. As long as the morphs live, they might—”

Mark gripped the table harder. “Cassandra would never hurt me—”

“All of you, sit down!” Hector was shouting now.

“We should wait for Lucius to get back.” Raven, too, had to yell to be heard over the growing din.

“Yes!” Serra agreed. “He and Renault can—”

“What?” Jaffar said, rounding on them. “Renault can what? Uncover _more_ dark secrets? Create _more_ perversions of life?”

“You’re one to talk of dark secrets.” Mark was shocked to realize it was Erk who had spoken.

“Erk,” Pent said warningly.

Jaffar fixed his gaze on the young mage. “You have something you wish to say to me?”

“Yes,” Erk said, glaring back with equal hostility. “Where the hell is Nino?”

Jaffar faltered. “I—what? I thought—you and she—”

“ _Enough.”_

The word shot through the meeting hall like an arrow. But it was not Hector’s booming voice that had brought the arguments to a stop. Everyone turned to face Eliwood, who stood, one hand on Durandal’s hilt, eyes going from one face to another.

“We spent nigh on a year fighting Nergal,” Eliwood said. “By the end of that year, every man and woman who joined our cause had bled for it.” He looked down at his sword. “Not all of them made it back.”

Even without Matthew there, Leila’s face flashed into Mark’s mind.

“We did not survive that to be torn apart by indecision now,” Eliwood went on. “There is exactly one man here able to decide what we are to do.” He looked over at his longtime friend. “You, Hector, must be the one to choose our course.”

Hector blinked. “Well. Yes. Of course.” He coughed, and Mark just heard him murmur something about “no pressure” before he addressed the group. “But I can’t make that choice without more information. We’ll have to organize a scouting party to—”

The door slammed open, making half the table’s occupants jump. Everyone turned to see Oswin rush through the door. “Begging your pardon, my lords,” he said, bowing quickly, “but you have another new arrival.”

Hector frowned. “Who?”

Oswin had already taken up position by the door. “Announcing,” he called, “Brother Lucius and Father Renault.”

Priscilla still couldn’t help but marvel at the sight before her. A morph, speaking and smiling and laughing just like a human. A pregnant morph, whose concern for her unborn child was just as heartfelt as Priscilla’s own. Perhaps it was foolish to feel such a strong sense of kinship with someone she’d just met, but as they spoke, she couldn’t help but find more and more ways that she and Grace were alike—and fewer ways they were different.

Grace had already related the story of Peleus’s takeover of the fort before moving on to the far more pleasant topic of her husband Denning’s musical pursuits, when a sharp knock came at her door. Both women jumped, but petite Anastasia, who’d been busying herself keeping the fire stoked, rose to answer without a second thought. The handmaiden opened the door, and gasped. “Lord Hector!”

Priscilla pushed to her feet, Grace belatedly following suit. Hector strode toward them, wearing the same warm smile he always had when seeing his wife. Behind him was a small group from downstairs, including Mark, Raymond—and Lucius, who was leaning heavily on her brother’s shoulder. At the monk’s side was an older-looking man she swore she knew, but couldn’t quite place. He wore a bishop’s robe and neck-length grey hair, but remained clean-shaven. He had surprisingly intense look about him for a man of the cloth.

“Priscilla.” Hector took her hand and kissed it tenderly. “Sorry to barge in like this.”

“It’s quite all right,” she said, glancing around at the group. “You’re always welcome here, husband.”

She was rewarded with a blush across his face, barely hidden under his blue beard. She turned to smile at the returned monk. “Brother Lucius. As glad as I am to see you, it’s clear you should be resting”

That was putting it lightly. Lucius looked like he’d been through hell and back. “I’m all right,” he said, smiling weakly back at her. “Just a little tired.”

“He insisted on riding constantly to get here,” the older man murmured in a smooth baritone. “I tried to get him to rest, but...”

“It’s all right, your excellency,” Raymond growled. “We all know how stubborn he can be when he wants to.”

Priscilla turned her gaze on the newcomer, and realization dawned at last. “Bishop Renault,” she said.

Renault nodded. “Marchioness Ostia. It’s a pleasure to see you again.”

“I’d heard you were returning with Lucius,” she said, studying the man. She hadn’t interacted with him much five years ago, and she was beginning to understand why. The aloofness in his eyes went deeper, into his very soul; only a handful of people had been kind enough, brave enough, or stubborn enough to pierce that barrier and get to know him. “I hadn’t realized you’d be back so soon, though.”

Lucius raised his eyes to meet hers. “As they said, I felt it was important for us to return as soon as possible.” He looked over at Mark. “I now see I was right.”

The tactician didn’t meet his gaze; he was looking over at Grace. “You’re all right?” he asked softly.

“I am,” she replied, still eyeing Renault warily. “Who’s this? What’s going on?”

Renault flinched at the sound of her voice, turning to Grace for the first time. Something changed behind his eyes as he regarded her. “You’re the morph,” he said.

Grace pulled away from him, just a hair. “So they keep telling me,” she said, an edge to her voice.

He tilted his head. “And… you’re free.”

“So I keep telling them.”

He didn’t respond, just continuing to stare at her, his brow slowly furrowing. She pulled back further still, wrapping protective arms around her belly. “I’m married, I’ll have you know,” she grumbled.

The words seemed to snap Renault out of his reverie. He looked at Grace in surprise, then around at the others. Then—without warning—he threw his head back, laughing. It was a childlike laugh—guileless, mirthful, unrestrained. And, judging by the faces of everyone else in the room, they were all as shocked by it as Priscilla.

“You did it,” he said, finally bringing his laughter under control as he looked back down at Grace. “You actually did it.”

The morph looked even more worried now than she had before his laughing fit. “Did what?”

“The red book was never finished,” Renault said, wiping away a tear. “It couldn’t have been used to free anyone. But you—or rather, this Cassandra—she finished it.” He turned to Mark. “If we can get it back, we can use it to free the morphs again. This time, for good.”

Mark looked relieved—then confused. “Wait, Renault—er, your excellency... what do you know of the red book?”

The bishop regained some of his composure—but he still wore a smile. “Mark.” He put a hand on his chest. “I _wrote_ the red book.”


	16. Chapter 16

_Then again, perhaps I haven’t._

The party that returned to the conference room was far quieter than the one that had left. Canas looked at each of their faces in turn, noticing the various degrees of surprise and confusion. Grace and Priscilla had descended as well, evidently deciding the proceedings were too important to miss. Grace sat next to Mark, putting her directly next to Canas as well. He tried not to be too obvious in his interest; the morph was a fascinating subject of study, but a married man staring at a married woman was improper no matter their species.

Still, he was close enough to hear when Grace leaned over and hissed to Mark, “You’ve seen the red book. It must be decades old.”

“Centuries, even,” Mark whispered back.

Grace glanced at Renault. “How?”

Mark merely shook his head. Canas quickly pretended interest in the stained glass above their heads.

Once everyone had settled in, Hector and Priscilla taking their seats next to each other, Renault addressed the assembly. “I will repeat what I said upstairs for the benefit of those who weren’t there,” he began. “Mark reported that the fort’s leader, Cassandra, found one of Nergal’s notebooks, which she used to free her subjects.” He drew a slow breath. “It’s true that the second book—the blue one Peleus used to revert the morphs—was Nergal’s. But the red book was written by me.”

Shocked silence quickly gave way to agitated murmuring. Some people rose to ask questions, but sat back down at a glare from Hector. “Go on,” he said.

Renault lowered his eyes. “My past is… complicated, and in some ways, incomplete. Suffice to say, I found myself assisting Nergal with his experiments in creating morphs.”

“This was a long time ago,” Canas said gently. He realized belatedly he might be giving away how much he knew about Renault’s past; indeed, he was drawing a few surprised glances, as people realized he _wasn’t_ surprised.

“Yes,” Renault sighed, rubbing his eyes. “A very… _very_ long time ago.” He blinked, and looked back up at the others. “When I saw the results, at first I was...”

“Shocked?” Grace asked, glowering. “Appalled? Horrified?”

Renault flinched at her words. “Yes,” he admitted. “All that and more.” He looked over at her with soft eyes. “But I ultimately remembered that the mistake was not the morphs’. It was mine. And I sought to correct it.”

Grace crossed her arms. “You sought to kill them.”

“No. Even then, I could not...” Renault’s eyes went distant for a moment before clearing. “What Nergal had created were puppets. I sought to cut their strings.”

His eyes were down as he spoke, and Canas shivered. _He’s not just talking about the morphs._

“Which was why you wrote the red book,” Eliwood mused. His chin rested on his steepled fingers.

Renault nodded. “I was a simple mercenary, but participating in Nergal’s experiments… changed me. I was able to understand the code he used when creating the morphs, and learned to bend it to my whims. Even as I worked toward his ends”—his eyes flicked to Lucius—“I worked also to subvert them. But I…” He trailed off yet again. “I was never able to achieve that goal.”

It was a struggle for Canas to remain silent. He knew a little of what Renault had been through, what he’d done, and what that red book must have meant to him. Judging from the way Lucius was looking at Renault, and the sadness in the monk’s eyes, he wasn’t the only one.

“When I did finally leave, I was unable to take the book with me. I thought it lost forever. And, after our battle with Nergal, I thought the same of the morphs.”

Grace shifted in her seat, her discomfort having little to do with the baby. Canas had to ignore the impulse to comfort her.

“But.” Renault straightened. “Cassandra found it. She completed my work. And it seems I have a chance to make up for some of my past mistakes.”

Eliwood stroked his chin thoughtfully. “I hope so, your excellency. But how do we keep the morphs from reverting again after we free them?”

“Eliwood,” Hector said warningly.

“We kill Peleus,” Grace said, a hard edge to her voice. “And burn the blue book.”

Mark looked uneasy. Renault cleared his throat. “I know more now than I did the last time I wrote in those pages. Once I have the red book—and Cassandra’s additions to my work—I’ll be able to prevent any future incursions on their minds.”

“All right,” Eliwood said, looking around the table with a triumphant smile. “So we have a way to free the morphs once more.”

“Which does not change the question of whether or not we _should,_ my lord, _”_ Jaffar murmured.

Canas cringed at the words, but said nothing. Nobody did—not even Hector, though he glared daggers at Jaffar.

“Oh, come _on,_ ” Mark said at last, rising from his seat. “We’re not still talking about this, are we?”

Hector frowned. “Mark—”

“You’ve all read my letters,” Mark went on. “You’ve all seen Grace.” He motioned to the morph, who sunk into her chair, trying to avoid the gazes that fell on her. “This isn’t some invading army at our doorstep. It’s a peaceful community of people—yes, _people—_ who need our help.”

Hector stood slowly, eyes on the table. “You say that,” he began. “And I want to believe it. But this Peleus—what has he done to this community?”

“Enslaved it,” Mark said. “Robbed the people of their freedom, their individuality—”

“And created an invading army at our doorstep,” Raven finished.

Mark flinched, but did not retort. Canas felt himself start to sweat.

“What exactly do you propose we do, Mark?” Hector said. “We may be able to use the red book to free the morphs, but we don’t _have_ the red book.”

“So, we get it,” Mark said. “Send a stealth team to infiltrate the fort and retrieve the book. Then we use it to save them all.”

“ _How?_ ” Hector’s voice grew insistent.

For the first time, Mark faltered. “We… well, we can...” He looked to Renault. “Can you use the book on more than one morph at a time?”

Renault frowned. “I wrote those notes a long time ago, and didn’t succeed in my goal. I have no idea whether it will work on one morph or a hundred.”

“All right,” Mark said, looking back to Hector. “So, we subdue them. Capture them. Then we’ll have all the time we need to—”

“Are you listening to yourself?” Hector shook his head. “ _Subdue_ an entire _army?_ Morphs as skilled as any fighter? If we tried to take them all alive, we’d be slaughtered.”

“There are stories,” Mark said. “They say that a Nohrian noble once—”

“Stories aren’t going to win us any battles,” Hector said. His voice was soft, even though his words were hard. “Mark, I’m sorry, but I just don’t see any way to—”

The door boomed open; the entire conference room jumped as Oswin strode in once more. “Blessed _Elimine,_ Oswin!” Hector shouted. “Can’t you open that door any more quietly?”

“Another visitor,” Oswin said, ignoring the question. “One you’ll want to receive.”

Hector frowned. “Almost everyone’s here already. Who the hell is left?”

Oswin just smirked as he took up his ceremonial position by the door. “Announcing Lady Ninian,” he called. “Marchioness of Pherae.”

_She looks beautiful in red._

It was a foolish thought, and Eliwood knew it. He’d seen his wife in and out of all sorts of colors over the last five years. But red was what she was wearing today, and gods, did she look good in it. The dress flowed—no, _cascaded_ to the floor, elegant sleeves draping off her arms and the gold-trimmed neckline preserving just enough of her modesty. The red should have made her pale skin and white hair stand out, but it seemed to lend more life to them instead. He saw much of his mother’s design in the regal dress, yet it retained the sash and streamers of Ninian’s dance attire, a blend of her old and new roles.

He went straight to her, propriety be damned. She beamed back at him as he took her hands. “You look beautiful,” he said, voicing his thoughts, however foolish.

She laughed, lowering her eyes. “You always say that.”

“It’s always true.” He glanced over her shoulder at the open door. “But what are you doing here? We agreed you’d stay in Pherae.” He frowned. “You couldn’t possibly have heard about Mark already.”

“No,” she admitted, “though Oswin filled me in after I arrived.” She placed a hand on her chest. “I just got… a feeling.”

Eliwood nodded slowly. These premonitions came more rarely to Ninian than they had her brother, and even less often since the war had ended—but they both knew to heed them when they did arrive. “What about—”

“Pherae will manage for a few days without us,” she said soothingly. “Rebecca has things well in hand with Wolt and Roy, and Lady Eleanor was happy to help her. You know how she dotes on her grandson.”

“And you?”

She swayed a little on her feet. “I’m all right. Stronger than I was after Roy’s birth.”

 _But still weaker than before._ Eliwood couldn’t help but think about the last thing Nils had said to his sister; how remaining in Elibe would, eventually, kill her. None knew if that would happen in one year or a hundred, but…

 _No matter. She’s not dying today._ “Thank you for coming,” he whispered. “I’m glad you’re here.”

Oswin had wedged another chair in next to Eliwood’s. Rather than take her straight to it, he led her the long way around the table, letting her briefly greet old friends. She and Priscilla shared a tight embrace and a few kind words; Ninian, having given birth only a few months before, was more than happy to offer comfort to her friend. She stopped also by Grace, looking her over and offering a soft smile. Grace, still steeped in uncertainty, managed to smile back.

When they reached their seats, Eliwood pulled out Ninian’s chair, but she gave a slight shake of her head, motioning instead for him to sit. He did so, eyeing her.

Ninian turned to Hector. “Lord Hector,” she said. “I don’t know how formal these proceedings are.”

Hector snorted. “Ninian, it’s _me_. How formal do you _think_ they are?”

She smiled at him. “Then I won’t bother asking you to recognize me. I’ll only ask you to listen.”

Every pair of eyes in the room was rapt on Ninian as she held her hands over her heart. She touched the ring on her right hand, a mirror of sorts to the wedding band Eliwood had given her so long ago. “I’ve forgotten a great deal from my childhood,” she said softly. “My mother’s face. My father’s name. I know they gave me Ninis’s Grace, but… I don’t remember when, or where, or why.” She lowered her hands, and her eyes. “I do remember what it was like on the other side of the Gate. Sometimes easy, sometimes… hard. Young dragons, like Nils and I, who were trying to find their own path. Old dragons who remembered the Scouring. Very old dragons, who...” She shook her head. “You’ve all heard the legends. Medeus. Duma. Anankos. Perhaps madness is the only fate for dragons who live long enough to meet it.”

An uncomfortable silence fell as everyone pondered this. Doubly so for Eliwood, who was once more reminded that Ninian was far, far older than she looked.

“Everywhere, there were tales,” Ninian went on. “How the humans had betrayed us. Robbed us of our true power and our rightful home. ‘Humans are cruel, treacherous, and greedy,’ they’d say. ‘Pray to Naga you never have the ill luck to meet one.’ You have your own version of the tales, of course,” she said, motioning to those who looked like they were about to speak. “About eight great heroes who vanquished the dragons that would have wiped out humanity. I ask only that you remember, there are two sides to every story.”

Any potential protestations fell silent. Ninian nodded, and went on. “Then, Nils and I were summoned through the Dragon’s Gate. And the humans were just as we’d been warned.” Her eyes flicked to Jaffar and Legault, who were suddenly avoiding her gaze. “We were imprisoned straightaway, and once we escaped, we were hunted across Elibe. We hid our true natures, but expected at any minute that the truth could come out, and we’d be torn apart.”

She blinked, and then turned her gaze across the table. Lucius sat there, slowly regaining his color. She then turned to Lyn, who met her gaze evenly, arms folded. “And then,” Ninian said softly, “we met you.”

Lucius and Lyn shifted in their seats as Ninian looked down at Eliwood. Even after five years of marriage, his heart still thrilled at the look in her eyes. “And you met us,” she said.

He took her hand, involuntarily. She smiled, and looked back to the group. “Dragons are not all you were told,” she said. “Humans are not all I was told. And morphs...” She looked over at Grace. “Morphs are clearly not all we were told, as well.”

Grace blinked, hands folded protectively over her belly.

“All I ask,” Ninian said, “is that the morphs be given the chance we dragons were not.”

She sat down then, giving Eliwood’s hand a squeeze. He felt like taking her in his arms right then, but resisted; the smile she gave him was promise enough for things to come later.

Looking around the table, Eliwood saw that much of the others’ conviction had slipped. Raven looked to Priscilla with troubled eyes. Jaffar looked to no one, keeping his gaze fixed firmly on the table. Even Legault, who’d had his feet up on the table when the meeting began, looked unusually somber. And Lyn…

Lyn rose, walking over to Mark. She stood behind his chair, touching his shoulder without looking down. “May I speak with you?” she said; her voice was low, but in the silence, it echoed across the entire room. “Privately?”

Mark suddenly looked as though he’d been sentenced to the gallows, but he nodded nonetheless. He rose and followed Lyn out of the room. The only person who didn’t watch them go was Grace, who was staring at Eliwood’s wife.

“Wait,” the morph asked after a long moment, “did you just say you’re a _dragon?_ ”

The last time Mark had seen Lyn was at Hausen’s funeral. She’d borne her grief with grace, then; she’d known it was coming, after all, and was grateful for the years she’d had to get to know her grandfather before he passed on. Still, the depth of sorrow in her eyes had been enough to bring Mark to his knees. He nearly dropped everything to return to her side, briefly envisioning going back to how things were, all those years ago: just the two of them, wandering the planes of Sacae, no plans, no burdens, just the wind and the sky to guide them on.

How quickly things change.

Lyn led him through a few passageways; not to her chambers, just away from the meeting hall. She eventually came to a halt at a nondescript corner. She didn’t turn to face Mark, not right away; he approached her, mouth dry. “What did you want to talk about?” he asked.

She flinched at his words, as though she’d forgotten he was there. She turned to him, and he found her face unreadable. “It’s something Florina said,” she said softly. “Some of your letters, the way you talk about Cassandra...”

A part of Mark had known this was coming. He swallowed his fear, and met her gaze. “What about it?”

Lyn blinked. “Do you… did you develop feelings for her? Did you grow to care for her?”

He had to lie to her—but he couldn’t. She’d pick up on it in a heartbeat. Besides, if anyone deserved the truth from him, wasn’t it Lyn?

“Yes,” he said, gazing unflinchingly at his feet. “I know it seems stupid, but… she changed in the time I knew her. Or—maybe she didn’t change, she just allowed me to see more of her than my captor. I earned her trust, and she earned mine, and there was this moment when we were looking at each other and—”

He broke off, finally looking at her. Lyn remained opaque, but something in her eyes had shifted. “Lyn?” he asked with trepidation. “Are you all right?”

She didn’t answer at first. Her gaze flicked from his eyes to his hair to his disheveled clothes, her breaths deep and even. Finally, she looked up at him, fingered the hilt of her blade—and smiled. “Yes,” she said. “Yes, I… I’m all right.” She looked down the hall. “I thought I’d be angry, or worried, or… maybe even a little jealous. But I’m all right.”

He blinked. “You mean it?”

“Yes!” She began to laugh, a soft, beautiful sound that made him long for Cassandra. “Father Sky, Mark—it took getting captured by morphs, but you finally found someone you can be happy with.”

A weight seemed to lift from Mark’s heart, and he managed a laugh. “I wasn’t _that_ bad, was I?”

Lyn shrugged. “Hector told me he was considering forcing you at swordpoint to attend the next ball, just so you’d meet _some_ one.”

“I’m glad we avoided that,” Mark said, trying to sound jovial even as his throat tightened. “But now—”

Lyn placed a hand on his shoulder, and there was a new strength to her gaze and her smile. “I’ll support you,” she said. “I’ll stand behind your efforts to free the morphs—to free Cassandra.” She took his other shoulder. “I’ll get her back for you, Mark. I swear it.”

Mark swallowed again; he didn’t dare call attention to the tears forming in his eyes by wiping them away. “Thank you,” he said hoarsely. “You… this means more to me than I can say.”

She nodded. “And I’m sure we can convince Hector as well,” she said, turning him back down the hall. “Come on.”

They started down the hall, side-by-side—until a shadow shifted in a corner. Mark jumped back, and Lyn had her sword in hand before the shadow spoke. “Sorry if I startled you,” it said in a familiar voice.

Mark and Lyn exchanged a frown. “Matthew?” Lyn asked. “What are you doing here?”

“Figured it was my turn for a private chat with Mark,” Matthew said. “Assuming you’re done with yours.” He hadn’t yet moved, still cloaked in shadow.

Lyn looked back at Mark, who nodded. “I’ll catch up,” he said. Lyn smiled at him, sheathed her blade, and continued on down the hall.

Mark stepped toward the thief. “It’s good to see you, Matthew,” he said sincerely. “I know these last two months have been hard on—”

“This is my fault,” Matthew said, stepping into the light at last.

Mark flinched. He’d been ready for Matthew’s self-blame, ever since his first delivery to the fort weeks ago. He hadn’t been ready for how the spy looked. His blond hair had become a complete mess in the time since he’d left the meeting hall, and his eyes and cheeks were tinged with red.

“Have you been drinking?” Mark blurted.

Matthew smiled grimly. “Thinking,” he said. “Drinking would have made it easier.”

Mark shook off his surprise. “Look, I know you blame yourself for my abduction. But it was my idea to follow Cassandra, and you did everything you could to keep me safe. It’s not your fault.”

“Oh, it is,” Matthew sighed. “I gave myself the job of serving as your bodyguard, and failed in it. But that’s not what I mean.” He began rubbing his face. “Luther.”

The name was so out-of-context, Mark didn’t recognize it at first. “What about them?”

“I found him—them. My spies, I mean. We’d heard rumors of a pale-skinned rider hiding out in the ruins near Nabata. Once you were captured, and we knew there were still morphs, I had them look into it, and when we found them...”

“Found them?” Mark echoed. “You found Luther?”

Matthew nodded. “And we had them brought to the fort. So that Cassandra would do whatever she does, and you might be able to learn about it.”

Mark’s lips parted. _Even from miles away, he was still manipulating us all._ “All right,” he said slowly. “That was… underhanded of you, but you accomplished your goal, and gave Luther a home, so—”

Matthew punched the wall. A weak gesture, but the suddenness of it still made Mark jump. “Don’t you _get it?_ ” the spy hissed. “I’m the reason Luther tried to kill you. But that’s just the beginning.” He lifted his reddened eyes to meet Mark’s gaze, and the tactician was shocked to realize that he’d been _crying._ “I’m the reason Peleus found the blue book.”

Hector had to resist the urge to drop his head onto the table before him. He forced his chin to stay up, holding Lyn’s gaze. “Can you repeat that?” he said. “I’m not sure I heard correctly.”

Lyn shot him a quick glare before turning to the group as a whole. “I agree with Mark,” she said. “We should try to stop Peleus and save as many morphs as we can.”

Which was the opposite of what she’d indicated that morning. In fact, it was an almost complete reversal of how she’d felt about the morphs for the last six weeks. “Must have been some talk,” he muttered to himself.

“Excuse me?” Lyn called.

“Nothing,” he said. He looked to Eliwood and his wife. “You are in agreement?”

“You know we are,” Eliwood said firmly. He and Ninian sat hand-in-hand, a unified, resolute front.

Hector pursed his lips, and looked at last to his own wife. “And you?”

“After speaking to Grace, I feel the choice is obvious,” Priscilla responded. “These people need our help.”

Hector leaned back in his seat, taking a deep breath, and struggling not to let it out as a groan. “So, you all hope to save the morphs,” he said.

Nods from around the table answered him.

“Which means stopping Peleus.”

Grace’s eyes hardened as the nods continued.

“Which means fighting through an army of morphs. Morphs who have lost their free will and will likely fight to the death, no matter what we do.”

Mark came wandering back into the room as Hector spoke, a frown on his face and a faraway look in his eyes. He sat down without a word, not even acknowledging the others. Hector spared him a concerned look before continuing on. “It sounds to me like we’re exactly where we were an hour ago, with no way in, no plan, and, as far as I can see, no chance.”

“My lord?”

Grace’s soft voice cut through the room like a knife. Every pair of eyes turned to her. “Er,” Hector began. “Yes, miss—uh—Grace?”

The healer’s eyes lowered under the scrutiny. “I’ve been thinking it over, and I think I have an idea,” she said. “If you take Peleus, you can force the others to stand down.

Mark blinked, looking up from his reverie at last. “She’s right. Head of the snake, and all that.”

“For human opponents, that might work,” Hector sighed. “But—and I mean no offense here—these are morphs, programmed to fight to the death. Can we really get them to surrender?”

“You can if Peleus orders it,” Grace insisted. “When he reverted them, he must have made some changes. They take orders from him as though he were Ephidel, or even Nergal himself. If he passes down the order to surrender, they will, without question or hesitation.”

Hector’s frown deepened. “We still have the same problem. From what you tell me, Peleus would sooner die than give such an order.”

“He would,” Grace admitted. Her small hands tightened into fists. “Which is why we have to make him do it.”

Mark’s mouth slowly opened in shock. Hector folded his hands. “How?”

“With the blue book.”

Silence rang in the hall. “Grace,” Mark began, “are you—”

“I’m sure.” She straightened up, looking directly at Mark. “It’s the best way to end this without my people being killed.”

“But—”

“He deserves it, Mark,” she spat. “For what he did to Denning, for what he’s _doing_ to Cassandra—he deserves it.”

Mark shuddered at the mention of Cassandra’s name, and slowly sat back down.

Hector felt tension rising in his spine. “Take Peleus, and stop the morphs,” he said softly. “It’s an appealing thought, but can we really do that?”

“ _We_ can.”

It took Hector a moment to realize who the soft voice belonged to. Everyone turned to Legault, who was reclined in his chair, booted feet up on the table. The former Black Fang assassin smiled at Hector. “You get us through the wall, we can find Peleus and drag him out.”

“Legault,” Jaffar growled. “What are you doing?”

“Hmm?” Legault rubbed a finger in his ear. “What’s that? I can’t hear you over me being in charge of our little outfit.”

Jaffar glowered, but fell silent.

“That still leaves the problem of how to get you through the wall,” Raven pointed out.

“Yeah,” Legault sighed. “If only we had a stash of Warp and Rescue staves somewhere.” He rolled his gaze over to Serra.

The cleric shifted in her seat. “The church of Elimine doesn’t hoard weapons,” she said. “But… I _might_ know where to get some.”

Legault smiled.

Jafar shifted. “You really believe we can do this?”

“We’ve got the best thieves, assassins, and mages in Elibe here in the room,” Legault answered with a shrug. “You really think we _can’t_ do this?”

Jafar didn’t answer.

“You’re sure it’ll work?” Mark asked. The hope in his voice made Hector squirm.

Legault shrugged again. “Nothing’s ever sure. But I believe Grace’s plan is your only chance to end this without a lot of death on both sides, and we’re just the ex-assassins to make it happen.”

Mark turned down his eyes; Hector could almost hear the wheels turning in his head. “Ok,” he murmured. “Ok.” He looked up. “My lord. With your blessing, I’ll begin formulating a strategy to capture Peleus, force the morphs to surrender, and begin restoring their free will.”

Silence settled over the hall. All eyes were on Hector, the colored light from the stained glass playing across his face. He felt, for neither the first time nor the last, the burden of rule upon his shoulders, and the emptiness of his brother’s absence.

He glanced at Priscilla, and her gaze gave him all the strength he lacked.

“You’re insane,” he groaned. “You’re all insane. Expecting me to risk our marchies, our knights, our people for the sake of a group of morphs.” He leaned forward, clutching his forehead. “And I’m just as insane as the rest of you, because I’m going to do it.”

There was a rustle of movement around the table. “You mean...” Mark began hopefully.

“Yes,” Hector sighed. He held up his arms. “Yes! Let’s go rescue a bunch of morphs, at least some of whom have tried to kill us before, from a morph. Because this is what my life has become.” He stood up. “Mark, make your plan. Legault, pick your team. Serra, find the staves and choose who will use them. And the rest of you, be ready for whatever happens—”

“My lord!” Oswin called, slamming the door open.

“Oswin!” Hector roared. “I am having that door chopped up for firewood!”

Oswin ignored him, striding into the room. “A messenger has arrived.”

Hector ran a hand through his blue hair. “Where the hell from? And what did he have to say?”

“He’s being brought here as we speak,” Oswin said. “He was injured and exhausted; the lad could barely form a coherent sentence.”

Hector slammed a fist on the table. “Because we needed _even more_ complications.”

Everyone in the room watched the door, a sense of unease spreading over the assembly. Finally, two knights marched into the room, supporting a bedraggled rider between them. Dirt and blood stained his clothes, and he had trouble lifting his head; nevertheless, he straightened and saluted as soon as he saw Hector. “My lord,” he rasped.

“None of that, now,” Hector commanded. “At ease.”

“Sorry, my lord,” the messenger replied, slumping. “But I have to deliver my message before I can rest.”

“Let’s hear it, then.”

The man swallowed. “My lord, Lieutenant Sanders sent me. The foothills garrison is under attack.”


	17. Chapter 17

_I believe I understand Peleus’s endgame. If I’m wrong, the people I care about are going to pay the price—on both sides._

Eliwood kept his face calm as Lowen crested the rise, riding back toward them. Everyone was looking to him to lead, and he wasn’t going to let his anxiety bleed over to them. Eliwood had come this far by standing on principles and leaning on friends; that wasn’t going to change now.

“Welcome back,” he said as the knight pulled up in front of him. “What did you see?”

Lowen pushed his shaggy hair out of his eyes, and Eliwood tried not to grimace at the look in them. “It’s not good, milord. The garrison gates have been breached. Sanders’s men are still putting up a fight, but it’s only a matter of time before they’re overrun. I didn’t see any sign of the lieutenant himself.”

Eliwood inclined his head. “What of casualties?”

“Few. But more each minute. The morphs appear to be leaving wounded humans alone.” Lowen shook his head. “I’m not sure whether they’re being merciful or cruel.”

Eliwood wasn’t sure either, but that was hardly the biggest problem at the moment. “Thank you, Lowen. Did they see you?”

“I don’t believe so, sir—nor have they spotted the company. Hiding in the foothills seems to have paid off.”

_For the moment, at least. But we’ll have to make our approach sooner rather than later._

Eliwood turned to the company that had followed him here—a motley assortment of Lycian knights and Sacaen nomads, mounted on whatever horses were available. They’d ridden as hard as they dared from Ostia the moment they received the news, and had arrived at the garrison within an hour. Their mounts were tired, their equipment haphazardly thrown together, and their chain of command still being straightened out—but they were also some of the most experienced and powerful warriors on the continent. Whatever confusion might arise, Eliwood knew he could count on Kent, Marcus, and even Rath to keep their troops together on the battlefield. It felt a little odd to have a Sacaean chieftain taking orders from him, but then again, it wasn’t the first time Rath had followed him into battle.

“I won’t lie to you about the situation,” Eliwood called. “You all know the enemy, and you all know the stakes. I’ll only ask that you remember also our goals. We are not here to route the morphs; we are here to hold them until Mark can enact his plan. Keep them occupied, rescue as many soldiers as possible, and stay alive.” He took a breath. “Things are going to get worse before they get better. But they _are_ going to get better. We seek to save lives, not end them.”

Shouts of agreement rose from the ranks, and Eliwood nodded to the commanders. “Form up. Light cavalry in front, heavy in the rear. Rath, keep your archers toward the middle where they can be protected.”

“Yes, milord,” Rath mumbled.

Eliwood paused. “Something troubles you.”

Rath pursed his lips, looking up at Eliwood. “Trying to take the morphs alive will not be easy, since they will not extend the same courtesy to us.”

“Having second thoughts?” Eliwood said with a smile.

Rath shook his head. “You know we will do as you say.”

Eliwood laid a hand on Rath’s shoulder. The nomad flinched at his touch, but didn’t pull away. “If it comes down to you or them,” he said softly, “do what you must. I’ve no more desire to lose friends here today than you.”

Rath looked up at him. “As you say,” he replied, matching Eliwood’s tone. “But you’re right, my lord. We’re not here today to kill.”

Eliwood’s smile broadened. “If you keep that in mind, I’m sure you’ll do the right thing.”

Rath nodded, and turned to join the other Kutolah riders amongst their ranks. Marcus and Kent continued grouping up their respective companies of knights as well, getting them ready to fight. Eliwood was pleased that nobody questioned whether or not he should be on the front lines. It was an argument he’d heard countless times before, and he had more important things to worry about than proving he wasn’t the frail, pampered noble many still viewed him as.

_Hector and Lyn are both doing their parts. How could I do any less?_

At last, the company was ready. Eliwood turned his horse toward the garrison, still hidden behind the roll of the foothills. “All right,” he said. “It’s time.”

He drew Durandal, the blazing blade glinting in the afternoon sun. He held it in front of his face, gazing into his own reflection in the steel. “You killed the woman I love,” he whispered to it. “Today, we fight to save Mark from the same pain.”

He lifted the blade aloft, let out a roar, and charged.

The morphs saw them coming, but barely had enough time to raise their defenses; they’d established a foothold against Sanders’s men within the fort, but weren’t ready for an attack from without. Eliwood took in the enemy line, their rusty armor and scavenged weapons, and felt a pang of guilt. Mark was right; these weren’t soldiers, these were refugees being forced to fight.

But that didn’t make them any less deadly.

The cavalry slammed into the morph lines, and battle filled Eliwood’s senses for the next several minutes—the crash of metal, the flash of blades, the tang of blood. He spared a glance to the mountains whenever he could, but he still missed it when it came; it was Kent’s shout and raised finger that brought his attention to the movement among the stones.

Concealed morphs sprang out of the mountainside. A few from one spot, a handful in another—but they added up quickly. Soon, a force at least as large as the one they fought already was swarming down the mountainside toward them. They spilled into the valley, blocking the way from which Eliwood’s riders had come—and cutting off their escape. The enemy reinforcements closed in, Eliwood’s heavy cavalry taking up positions to defend Rath’s archers.

“An ambush.” Eliwood allowed himself a small smile. “Just as Mark predicted.”

Fiora gritted her teeth as the combatants met below her. Every time she heard clashing blades, she found herself back on Valor, watching her soldiers die. She’d long since given up trying to escape the screams. Now, she braced for them—and promised herself not to let it happen again.

“There he is,” Mark growled. She glanced over her shoulder to see him peering at the mountainside. Evidently, he hadn’t noticed her brief lapse. “Peleus has concealed his command post behind those rocks.” He pointed to a nondescript spot on the mountain, near the river of morphs cascading down the slopes.

Fiora’s sisters were riding in a tight formation, Florina once more taking the lead. The two wyvern riders trailed them; Heath was more than willing to accept his wife’s orders, and had eventually convinced Vaida to do the same, after a great deal of grumbling. Fiora had caught more than a few longing glances between Florina and Heath, but neither broke formation. A part of her still protested the idea of spouses fighting alongside each other, but in all the time Heath and Florina had served at Caelin, their love seemed only to hone their lances.

Still, she was glad her husband and their three girls were safe back in Ilia.

Each flier carried one passenger. Renault rode with Heath, and Vaida kept casting glares back at Canas. Lyn held tight to Florina, and Farina carried Guy. They were all surprised that he’d been invited along—none more so than Guy himself. Mark had pushed for Matthew to join them, but both the spy and Lyn had said Guy would be a better fit. “Speed will be of the essence,” Lyn had said as they set out, “and there are few faster.”

Fiora didn’t know if Lyn noticed the way her compliment had made the swordsman blush.

Mark waved to Florina, who wordlessly began leading the others toward the spot he’d indicated. As they descended, Fiora felt Mark’s hand on her shoulder. “After you drop us off, perhaps you should retreat to the fort.”

So he _had_ noticed. “You needn’t worry,” she called over her shoulder. “I’ll stay with the others and provide backup, like we discussed.”

Mark looked uncomfortable—something she couldn’t recall ever seeing before. “You have family back in Ilia,” he said gently.

“I have family here, too.”

“Let’s hurry this up,” Vaida called from behind them, sounding as pleasant as ever. “The sooner I get rid of this dead weight, the better.”

Nobody responded to her, but they all knew she was right. They could fight with passengers, but dropping them off would make it much easier to maneuver. Florina lead them in a wide circle to an outcropping, hoping it would conceal them; there was no doubt that Peleus, if he was where Mark estimated him to be, had spotted their approach, but they might yet obfuscate their intent long enough for the team to get down the slope and take him by surprise if he didn’t see the drop-off. As soon as they were close enough to the flat rock, the others began hopping off. Lyn and Guy dropped deftly to the ground. Renault slid from Umbriel’s back with surprising ease. Canas nearly fell on his face.

“Stay safe,” Mark said. “For your family.” He hopped to the ground, keeping one hand Fiora’s saddle and the other on the dagger he’d insisted on bringing.

She watched him go, only for an instant, then rose into formation once again. “What next?” she called to her sister, already knowing the answer.

Florina twisted in the saddle to face them. “We need to support Rath’s unit. Circle around behind the morph reinforcements. Break formation once we get there, and do your best to harry them and take some of the pressure off our lines.”

“What if there are archers?” Farina asked.

“There will _definitely_ be archers,” Heath replied.

Florina nodded. “Just like always. Signal the others, surround them, and come in low and fast.” Besides Vaida, they’d been fighting as a group and dealing with archers together for years. Swift action could end the threat before it began—but there was no denying the damage a well-placed arrow could do to a skyborne mount.

“Whatever we’re getting paid for this, it’s not enough,” Farina grumbled.

Vaida snorted. “Then we’ll have to exact the remainder in blood.”

“Does that make any sense?” Farina asked with a frown. “Because I don’t think that makes any sense.”

“There’s no time for making sense,” Florina called. “We need to go—now.”

The youngest of their group, she nevertheless spurred her pegasus to battle, confident the others would follow—which they did without hesitation. Fiora glanced back at her brother-in-law. The look on Heath’s face was strained, as though he was barely able to keep himself from breaking formation and flying to his wife’s side. But right now, he needed to follow her orders. Loyalty in this moment meant not staying by her side.

Not for the first or last time that day, Fiora yearned for her husband’s embrace.

She took a breath, turned back to the battle, and steeled herself. She _would_ return to her family. And that meant she needed to survive this battle.

That meant they needed to win.

“So this is all Ostia was able to mobilize,” Peleus mused. He surveyed the scene below from beneath a canopy. The sun was not so strong that he needed the shade, but it seemed fitting, somehow. He was the commander, after all—not by choice, but that was the role he needed to fill for now. He moved to the edge of the rocky outcropping, peering down at the battlefield. Morphs flooded the foothills below, converging on the human cavalry at the garrison’s entrance.

“They will doubtless have reinforcements in a matter of hours,” Luther said from their position at his side. “Ostia’s not that far away.”

Peleus nodded. “Indeed. Our only hope is to crush this first wave beyond all hopes of pursuit, and make our escape before they are able to follow.” He turned to the other guard he had with him. “What do you think?”

Denning glanced at him. “This is a message from Lord Nergal.”

Peleus pursed his lips. “I must admit, pleased as I was to restore your purpose, it is somewhat… outdated, isn’t it? Perhaps I should find a new one for you…”

Denning held his gaze, unspeaking, unmoving.

“But that would be hubris,” Peleus sighed. “My goal is only to restore Lord Nergal’s vision for us. To attempt to expand it, or supplant it…” He looked to the fourth figure under the canopy, tucked away in a corner and shrouded in a cloak. “That would make me no better than Cassandra.”

“We serve Lord Nergal’s will,” Luther said.

“Yes,” Peleus sighed. “We do.”

He checked the strap on his satchel to make sure it was still secure. He didn’t like having the books out in the open like this, but there were few other options. They’d abandoned the fort, taking only what they needed with them—and leaving behind the last vestiges of their “peaceful” lives. Once they took care of the humans, they’d flee north, find a new hiding place, and bide their time until they were ready to strike back.

Or the humans would kill them all, and then it wouldn’t matter anymore.

Peleus took a slow breath. “Are they here yet?”

At his side, Luther nodded. “Are you sure you don’t want Denning to simply shoot them?”

Peleus’s jaw tightened. “No,” he said. “I want Mark to see this.”

Neither questioned him any further, and moments later, he heard the sound of sliding rocks he’d been waiting for. He turned to look up the slope. It didn’t take long for figures to materialize among the rocks. Five of them, if he wasn’t mistaken. More than he’d expected, but the four of them should be able to handle five humans, once the fighting broke out.

And fighting _would_ break out.

At last, the humans slid onto their outcropping. Two warriors, carrying swords and wearing the robes of Sacae, were first. Mark was right behind them; the two older-looking humans followed, clutching tomes as they tumbled onto the flat surface.

“You’ve come,” Peleus said.

Mark straightened, eyes fixed on the morph. The two swordsmen—well, one was a woman—stayed in front of him. “You didn’t really think you could outsmart me, did you?”

“No,” Peleus replied, shaking his head. “Of course not. You’ve been studying tactics most of your life. As for me, I was created only to heal my fellow morphs. There was no way I’d be able to outsmart you.”

Mark flashed a gratifying look of surprise. “Oh.”

Peleus smiled. “That’s why I had to make sure I was ready for you.”

The Sacaeans went for their swords, but Mark quickly held up a hand. Luther and Denning didn’t move. “Peleus, please,” the tactician said, his voice going soft. “We don’t have to fight.”

Peleus shook his head. “You still don’t get it.”

“Don’t get what?”

“You should hate us. We were created to kill you, after all.” He paused, considering. “Well, rather, we were made to advance Lord Nergal’s goals, but that involves a lot of killing you. That’s what we do. It’s what we’re _meant_ to do.”

“But it doesn’t _have_ to be.” Mark took a step forward. “You’ve seen it yourself. In the fort, under Cassandra’s leadership, the morphs left behind the need to fight. They allowed themselves to grow—to become something greater.”

“Something we were never _supposed_ to be,” Peleus retorted. “Something Nergal would never had allowed.”

“Nergal’s _dead!”_ Mark stopped, and took a breath. “Nergal’s dead. You don’t have to carry out his will.”

“What else is there?” Peleus motioned to the field below. “Were we simply to live out our days in that fort? Get married, have children? Play at being human?”

“Dragons and humans worked alongside each other in Arcadia,” Mark said. “Nergal knew that—and he spent countless years trying to get back to that. It’s their differences that make them stronger. We could do the same.”

“Arcadia?” Peleus flinched at the word. “Yes… I’ve read that, in his notes. So long ago, he…” He frowned. “He was…”

Mark took another step forward. Luther and Denning glanced at Peleus, but did not draw their weapons. “Nergal’s gone,” Mark said.

“But he was our creator,” Peleus murmured. “Don’t you understand? To deny his will is to deny our very existence.”

“But who does that will serve?” Mark asked. “Not you. Look.” He pointed to the battlefield. “What’s your best hope for this battle? Cripple our cavalry and escape before reinforcements arrive? Then what? Continue to flee across Elibe? How long can you keep that up before you are caught?” He shook his head. “If you wish to carry out Nergal’s will, all you’ll do is be crushed. But if you lay down your arms here, if you try to make peace—”

Peleus let out a bark of laughter. “You love that word, don’t you? A man who makes his living off war strives so hard for peace. I do wish I had your idealism, Mark.”

“You _could._ ” The tactician was close now, nearly close enough to reach out and touch him. “You don’t have to suffer under the burden of Nergal’s will any longer. You haven’t reverted yourself yet because you need your free will to get through this. Let _that_ be the will you serve. You are free to choose, Peleus.”

“I am,” the morph murmured. He turned to look once more at the valley below. His people were capable fighters, and they had the human cavalry surrounded—yet already, there were casualties, and there would be many more before the day’s end.

“But what you don’t seem to understand,” he said, looking back at Mark, “is that I’ve already made my choice. Nergal’s will is a burden, as you say—one I must carry alone.” A hand rose to his temples. “But my will… the freedom Cassandra forced upon me… _that_ is the weight I am unable to carry. _That_ is the shackle I must break. As I have broken it for all those I care about.” He lowered the hand, and raised his other high in the air, fingers tensed. “If we do die, then we die fulfilling the purpose for which we were created. _That_ is my choice.”

He snapped his fingers, and the cloaked figure in the corner stood up. The humans all started; as he’d hoped, they’d been so focused on the visible threats that they hadn’t noticed hidden one. _Seems I may have outsmarted you after all, human._

“But we will not die here,” he said. “We will escape; we will find a way to open the Dragon’s Gate; and we will see Lord Nergal’s vision brought to life. I will salvage this.” He lowered his fingers. “Just as I salvaged her.”

Cassandra threw off her cloak, and Peleus got the indescribable pleasure of watching Mark’s heart break in front of him.

“Hold the line!” Kent roared above the din of battle. “Help is on the way, but we need to last long enough for it to get here!”

His words were almost unnecessary. Mark’s plan was working as well as any battle plan could be expected to. Knowing the enemy would try to ambush them from behind, they’d concentrated their defenses in the rear, and with a few mounted casters healing their heavy cavalry, the line had managed to hold strong so far. On the other side of the company, the Ostian knights and Sacaean archers were pressing the garrison’s defenders. There were far fewer of them than there were of the ambush force—but they were still morphs, literally built for battle. The humans were doing their best to fulfill Mark’s wishes, but already, there’d been casualties on both sides.

Sain rode up beside him. “Can you see Mark’s group?” he asked.

Kent shook his head. “The fliers dropped off their passengers on that slope,” he said, pointing, “but I haven’t seen anything since then.”

Sain nodded grimly. “Then we must continue to hold.”

Again, the statement seemed redundant. What else could they do? Surrender was not an option, not when their opponents were deep in the thrall of a man long-dead, a man who’d wanted nothing more than humanity’s destruction for the sake of his own power. The morphs would not take prisoners. It was Mark’s hope that he and the others could take Peleus prisoner, force him to order the morphs to stand down, and end the bloodshed quickly.

It was a hope few shared.

Coming back to the moment, Kent noticed Isadora flagging on the garrison line. He signaled to Sain that he was moving up, and rode to relieve her. He arrived just as she delivered a thunderous blow to a morph knight, sending her assailant sprawling and buying herself some breathing room. He clapped her on the shoulder as he pulled up. “Get some rest,” he called. “I’ll take over.”

She nodded, but did not move. “Kent, something strange is happening. They’re gathering the wounded.”

Kent frowned. “Is that so strange?”

“They’re gathering _our_ wounded.”

Kent’s attention snapped to the garrison gates. Just as she’d said, morphs were taking fallen human soldiers, those on the verge of death, and dragging them away from the front lines. Not many, but they’d already accrued a number of them, piling them onto a cart like cordwood. A woman in an elegant black dress was supervising the process, using a staff to heal those in truly dire straights, but keeping them all on death’s door.

“Why the hell would they do that?” Kent said. “Hostages?”

“I don’t think so,” Isadora replied. “At least, they haven’t made any demands.”

The armored morph had risen and charged them again. Kent quickly leveled his lance, and the morph took a grievous hit, falling back to be healed. Kent resisted the urge to pursue, standing fast to hold the line. “Was Mark wrong?” he wondered. “He thought the morphs would want to cripple our ability to chase them, then flee. Why would they burden themselves with prisoners?”

A bowstring snapped somewhere behind Kent, and an arrow flew over his shoulder into the chest of an oncoming morph. He turned to see Rath lowering his bow. The Kutolah leader was supposed to be supporting from the middle with the other archers, but Rath’s eyes were now on the cart. “Quintessence,” he growled.

Kent felt the blood drain from his face. “No.”

“Just like Uhai. Take the quintessence at the moment of death, and make new morphs from it. No need for babies; they can rebuild their race the way Nergal built it in the first place.”

Isadora turned to Kent, her horrified expression mirroring his own. “Do you think that’s why they kept Grace alive? Just to replenish their numbers? And if they can collect quintessence, then the baby—”

“I don’t think they can,” Kent interrupted. He couldn’t let himself consider what she was saying. “If they could, they’d be doing that, not gathering wounded to collect their quintessence later.”

“The blue book,” Rath interjected.

Kent swore. “The knowledge on harvesting quintessence could very well be in there. Perhaps Peleus is hoping they’ll find it, and they can harvest the quintessence of their prisoners later.”

“Perhaps…” For the first time since Kent had known him, Rath hesitated. “Perhaps we should end their suffering before it comes to that.”

Isadora gaped at him. “How can you say that? Those are your people, and—”

“Isadora.”

Kent wasn’t sure when Eliwood had appeared behind them, but the entire group fell silent as he rode into their midst. He eyed Rath. “I understand your pragmatism,” he said. “But we’re not to that point yet.”

Rath met Eliwood’s gaze for a moment, turned to look at the battle around them, and nodded. “Agreed.”

Eliwood looked at the knights. “Isadora, see if you can borrow anyone from the other front. It’s time we advanced our line. We should try to secure our wounded before the morphs can gather any more of them, and try to take that cart.”

“Yes, milord,” Isadora said, already turning her mount.

Eliwood looked at Kent. “Ready to take the front?”

“With you, milord?” It came out before Kent could think better of it.

He praised the gods when Eliwood only smiled at him. “If you’ll have me.”

“Cassandra?” Mark whispered, stepping forward despite himself. “Cassandra, say something.”

She smiled at him—and he knew she was gone. It wasn’t the sweet smile she’d developed since their first kiss, nor the teasing smile she’d given him before then, or even the sardonic smile she’d put on during his early attempts to befriend her. This was a cruel smile, the one you gave a bug you were finally going to squash.

The one he’d seen on the morphs they fought five years ago.

“Oh, Mark,” Cassandra sighed, shaking her head. “Dear, foolish boy. What do you think you’re going to accomplish here? Appeal to my heart? Remind me of who I really am? Or perhaps you simply wanted to whisk me away somewhere so you could finally bed me?” She raised her hands in an exaggerated shrug. “You’ll never understand, will you? You’ve known all along that morphs can’t experience emotion, yet you still fooled yourself into thinking I was falling in love with you. And you’re fooling yourself now if you think you can do anything to me.”

She placed a hand on her heart, and her face hardened, smile vanishing. “ _This_ is who I really am, Mark. Who I was always meant to be.” She looped one arm over Peleus’s shoulders. “Peleus corrected the defect that’s plagued me all these years, and now I can protect my people as I’m supposed to.”

Cassandra placed her other hand on Peleus’s chest, and the healer gave him a leering grin. It was a sight orchestrated to sicken Mark, and damn it all, it was working. He only just managed to retain control of himself. Cassandra had long since risen above thinking of herself as defective, and she knew she’d done more to protect her people than Nergal could have ever impelled her to. She _knew_ that.

And this wasn’t her. This was the version of her that Nergal wanted—that Peleus wanted. Loyal and subservient, not to be distracted by ideas of friendship, cooperation—or love. He didn’t know if the real Cassandra was inside there somewhere, screaming to get out, or if her will had been wholly overridden by the blue book. Either way, there was no point in trying to explain to this… _thing_ what Cassandra would really want.

It was time to finish the mission. It was time to stop being a lovesick fool, and start being a tactician.

“So?” he said, taking a step forward. Luther and Denning both raised their weapons; behind him, he could hear Guy and Lyn doing the same. Cassandra didn’t so much as flinch. “What is your purpose now?”

Cassandra rolled her eyes, sliding her hands off of Peleus. “Weren’t you listening? I protect my people. Same as always, only now I can do it right.”

“We’ll see,” Mark said. And he signaled with his hand.

Light and dark flared in front of Luther and Denning respectively, both morphs thrown back by the force of the spells. Cassandra cursed, drawing her blade and lunging forward, past Mark, to attack the two casters. He turned just in time to see her intercepted by Lyn, the two blades grinding against each other as their wielders braced themselves.

He didn’t have time to watch. Turning back, he saw a blur of motion as Luther surged toward him. Mark hit the ground, rolling to one side and feeling the ax breeze past above him. The morph turned to strike again, but Guy appeared as though from thin air to parry the blow. Luther drew back, their face stony and impassive, readying another strike, but Guy pre-empted them, lunging with a thrust ill-suited to the curve of his Sacaean blade, but enough to keep Luther off-balance.

Flashes of light drew his attention to Denning, who was ducking and weaving between spell after spell. Renault and Canas were managing to keep him from loosing his arrows—at least, that’s what it looked like. After Denning had helped them escape, Mark had no idea whether or not Peleus had discovered his betrayal and subjected him to another round with the blue book. Was he actually trying to fight them now? Or, if the mages stopped blasting him for a moment, would he surrender to them?

Mark longed to order them to stop, but he couldn’t take the risk. Denning was far too deadly an opponent, and if Peleus _had_ reverted him completely, keeping him off-balance was the best they could hope for. Still, they needed to get past the guards and get to Peleus. The morph healer was standing back for now, watching the battle. His eyes met Mark’s, and he smirked. _He doesn’t want to engage me,_ Mark thought. _Or, rather, he doesn’t care to. He knows I can’t put up a fight._

The infiltration plan had been thrown out with the arrival of the messenger, but the crux of the strategy remained the same: use the blue book to take control of Peleus, and make him order the morphs to stand down. By making the first move, though, Peleus had ensured the battle had to happen on his own terms. Mark had been able to anticipate his hiding place, but that was the only thing that had gone right so far.

He eyed the bag slung at Peleus’s side; it was fastened shut, but he could imagine he saw the outlines of the two books pressing against the side. He found himself tapping the hilt of the dagger he’d brought. If he could only…

 _Easy, Mark,_ he told himself. _Holding this dagger doesn’t suddenly make you a match for a morph. You just need to wait for the others. Sooner or later, they’ll overcome their opponents; then it’ll be time for Peleus._

“Smile while you can,” he muttered as he stared down the morph. “I’m coming for you.”

Even as Guy fiercely battled the ax-wielding morph, his gaze kept getting drawn to Lyn. People had taken to calling Guy the Saint of Swords; but in that moment, it was Lyn who looked divine. She matched Cassandra blow-for-blow, their blades moving in perfect unison. Besides the danger, it was almost like a dance in its grace and beauty, and Lyn swept through it all like a goddess of the blade.

 _Guy, you’re staring_ , he admonished himself. _Also, there’s a morph trying to kill you_.

He turned just in time to see the morph swing their ax at his head. Guy deftly sidestepped the blow and countered, drawing more blood. The morph had put up a decent fight so far, but they were beginning to tire. Surprising for a being designed only for battle—unless this was one of the morphs designed for a different purpose?

Either way, they were trying to kill him, and Guy didn’t intend to let that happen.

“Hey,” he said as he dodged another strike. “What was your name? Luther, right?”

The morph swung again.

“I’ll take that as a yes.” Guy parried, struck, and hit home again. “I don’t suppose we can talk this out?”

Still no response.

Guy gritted his teeth. “All right, look.” Another block; another strike; another cut. “I don’t want to hurt you. Mark made it clear you’re doing this against your will. But we’re not going to be able to help your people if you’re standing in our way. So, either you put down your ax—” He jumped out of reach of another swing, and leveled his blade at the morph. “Or I’ll make you put it down.”

Luther charged him, silent as the grave.

“Have it your way.”

Guy rolled out of the way of the attack, and came up swinging. He landed three cuts on Luther before the morph could draw a breath. Blood seeped out of the morph’s numerous wounds, and they were moving more and more sluggishly. Guy set his jaw, leapt forward, and slashed at Luther’s hand. The morph made a sound at last, crying out in pain as the ax fell from their fingers.

“Told you,” Guy muttered.

Luther lunged for him with their empty hands. Guy easily sidestepped and struck again, delivering two more cuts to the morph’s back and side. Luther lost their balance and collapsed to the ground, struggling to rise for a moment before going still.

Guy looked around at the outcropping. The others were still engaged in their own battles; Lyn fought Cassandra, Renault and Canas were tying up the archer, and Mark and Peleus were just sort of glaring at each other. He also looked at all the pools of blood Luther had left—that Guy had spilled. He looked down at the morph’s motionless form, and sighed. _I’m probably going to regret this, but…_

He retrieved a vulnerary from his pack, knelt over the unconscious morph, and carefully applied the medicine to his wounds. “Please stay unconscious,” he murmured. “Please stay unconscious.” Once he’d used enough that it was unlikely Luther would die of blood loss—but hopefully not so much that they would regain consciousness anytime soon—he rose and stood back, watching the morph carefully. Luther still didn’t move, but the pool of blood forming under their body stopped growing.

“Ok,” Guy whispered to himself. “I think I successfully avoided killing you. Go, me.”

He then turned to join Lyn, raising his blade and rushing at Cassandra while her back was turned. Surely, flanked by two Sacaean swordsmasters, the woman would—

Cassandra turned with preternatural speed and parried Guy’s blow before he’d even completed his swing. He yelped and leapt back from her counterattack, just before she spun to face Lyn again. She was just as skilled as they were—but with the unnatural focus of a morph, unafraid for her own life.

He’d managed to take Luther alive. But as Cassandra turned to face him once more, he wasn’t sure that was going to be an option this time.

Mark had to stifle both a cry and a cheer when Luther went down. Guy could have easily finished them while they were unconscious—but instead, he made sure they didn’t bleed out before moving on. That was one morph, at least, that would survive this ordeal.

Denning cried in pain as a bolt of dark magic caught him mid-dodge. Before Mark knew it, he was running to his friend’s side. “Denning!” he shouted, ignoring the warning cries of his comrades. “Are you—”

The morph snatched up his bow, taking aim at Mark. Mark’s eyes widened, but he didn’t dare stop. He threw himself onto Denning, slamming the morph to the ground. He heard the arrow release, and his cloak tugged sharply at his neck. The shot had pierced the cloth, missing him—but only just.

“Denning!” he hissed, grappling with the morph. Denning had the greater strength, so Mark had to use his leverage against him for as long as possible. Distantly, he heard Canas and Renault houting at him to get out of the way. He ignored them, leaning in close to Denning. “Listen to me! You’re still in there, you’ve got to be!”

Cold golden eyes met his. There was no flicker of recognition there. Had he been reverted, or was this just a very good act?

_Would a very good act have shot me?_

“Grace is safe,” Mark whispered. “She’s in Ostia. She and the baby are being given the best care possible.”

Now something moved in Denning’s eye. Recognition? Fear? Hope?

“She’s waiting for you. And I need you.”

Denning’s lips parted, and he began to whisper. “This is a—”

Pain exploded in Mark’s side, like fire and lightning lancing into him at once. He was blown off of Denning by the spell’s force, rolling to the ground, clutching his side. He forced his eyes open, looking over to see Peleus approaching, a tome in his hand and a glower on his face.

“Enough of that,” Peleus said as Denning slowly rose, bringing a new arrow to his bow. “You’ve bothered me and mine for too long, tactician. I wanted to give Luther the chance to complete what they started, but now it’s clear I should have done this myself.” He raised his hand, opening the tome once more.

Through the haze of pain, Mark heard the distant cries of his allies, but there was no way for them to reach him in time. He willed himself to grab the dagger, to leap to his feet and rush the morph before he could attack again, but his body refused to answer. He was only just able to push himself to a sitting position, giving him a full view of his opponent.

_So this is how I die._

Peleus cracked a smile as energy crackled about him. “Perish, human.”

A sword sprung out of Peleus’s chest, the blade streaked with red. His face seized, the smile twisting into a grotesque rictus; the energy gathering in his hand dispersed, leaving the ground around him steaming. He fell to his knees, then to his side, as Cassandra pulled her blade free of his chest.

Everybody, even Luther, fell still. Lyn’s blade was raised, but all she could do was stare at Cassandra in shock, just as the rest of them. Mark scrambled over to Peleus, trying in vain to find a pulse. “No,” he muttered. “No, no, no…” He looked up at Cassandra. “What did you do?!”

She looked down at him, frowning as though the question confused her. “I protected my people,” she said simply. “I protected _you_.”


	18. Chapter 18

“So, wait,” Guy asked, his blade dropping an inch. “Is she on our side now?”

Cassandra spun and charged him. Guy yelped and put up his blade to parry, only for Lyn to appear in front of him and block the attack instead. Guy strafed around the two women, moving to a flanking position, and struck again; Cassandra, as ever, parried the blow with ease, and the outcropping was a cacophony of clashing blades and scuffing feet once more. On the other side of the outcropping, Denning fell back, raising his bow at Canas; and Canas, in turn, held an open tome and had his palm out toward Denning. Neither loosed their attack, facing off in what appeared to be a stalemate.

The tactician in Mark took note of all this, yet only just. His attention was on the fallen morph before him. “Renault!” he cried, rolling Peleus’s body onto its back. “Quickly!”

The bishop was already making his way around the combatants, staying well clear of the three flashing blades. Even before he arrived at Peleus’s side, though, his expression greyed. “It’s too late,” he murmured to Mark, kneeling next to the body. “He’s gone.”

“We need to be sure.” Mark was already feeling for a pulse.

Renault shook his head. “If my staff could do anything for him, there would be some reaction from it.” He held up the staff, its gem glowing steadily, but dimly. “There’s nothing we can do now.”

All Mark could think to do was scream. He shoved the body away, collapsing backward on the ground. “We needed him!” he shouted, once his tongue returned to him. “We needed to force a surrender so we could fix the morphs!”

“That option is no longer available to us,” Renault said plainly. He went to Peleus’s bag.

Mark glared at him through his trembling eyes. “I _know—_ ”

“Then consider other options.” Renault rummaged around in the bag for a moment, then pulled out the two books. “Red saves. Blue enslaves. Canas!”

“I’m rather occupied at the moment, I’m afraid,” Canas called back. He and Denning hadn’t looked away from each other for a solid minute.

Mark looked up, focusing on Denning. It was impossible to tell what was going on behind those golden eyes, but…

“He won’t shoot,” Mark called. “Stand down, Canas.”

The scholar shot him a look that showed exactly how little he believed that statement. “Are you certain?”

“This is a message,” Denning replied. He slowly lowered his bow, trembling all the way.

Canas only spared a moment to gape at the morph before rushing to Renault’s side. “You’ve got the books?”

Renault responded by tossing Canas his staff. “Get this ready. I’ll find the relevant passages.”

Canas pulled the gem free of the end of the staff, and laid the two pieces before Renault, muttering some kind of incantation. Mark sat back, blinking at the two. “What are you doing?”

Neither answered, too deep into their work. Mark reached over and gave Canas a shake. “What’s going on?” he demanded. “What are—”

Canas held up a finger, not stopping in his incantations. As he spoke, the dull crystal began to glow—but not its usual soft white; this was a strange, rusty glow. Mark wasn’t entirely sure what they were doing, but he had seen Grace do something similar weeks before. “You’re trying to modify this staff?”

The red glow stopped growing and evened out around the crystal. Canas let out a sigh, and nodded. “This is—well, was—a fortify staff. We can use it to cover a wide area.”

“For healing?”

“For fixing the morphs.”

“ _What?_ ”

“It’s a long shot,” Canas said quickly, shooting Mark a pained look. “It would have been much better to force Peleus to make the morphs surrender. Then we do things properly, one by one, just as Cassandra had in the first place.” He glanced at the swordswoman, still locked into her duel with Lyn. “But on the ride over here, I thought of using the staff, and when I explained my idea to Renault, he thought it had merit.”

“And when were you planning on telling me about this?”

“As soon as the opportunity arose,” Canas replied, raising his hand. “Which, as it turns out, was right now.”

“Here!” Renault shouted, jabbing the page he was reading with a scarred finger. “Here’s where Cassandra picked up my work! Ah, if only she’d been there to help me in the first place.”

Mark glanced at him. “What—”

“Please, don’t distract me,” Renault said without looking up. “I must focus on my reading if we’re to save anyone today.”

Mark glowered at him. “You’re the one who—”

“Leave him be,” Canas said, laying a hand on Mark’s shoulder. “I’ll explain as best I can.”

Mark took a deep breath. He didn’t have time to be indignant. “How would this even work?”

A scholarly glint entered Canas’s eye. “Staves can heal wounds, poisons, magical afflictions… Most only affect one target at a time, though a select few affect a wide area. Ordinarily you don’t see those do anything other than healing wounds; the complex energies required for other things would burn through a staff’s magic after a single use.”

“But?”

“But it’s _possible._ And it’s also possible that, if we modify the staff with the information from the books, we can cast their effects over a wide area. The blue book should tell us how Peleus attempted to block their minds, and how to get past it; while the red book, with Renault’s own knowledge and Cassandra’s additions, should tell us how to free them for good.”

Mark’s felt the specter of hope looming over him. But—“This is how the morphs were meant to be,” he said. “So can we ‘heal’ them from what may be their natural state?”

Canas averted his gaze. “I did say it was a long shot.”

Any reply Mark may have made was cut off by a yelp from the battle. He looked up sharply to see Guy, a fresh gash across his leg, stumbling backward from Cassandra’s bloodied blade. She swung at him again, and he parried masterfully; but the impact was too much for his injured leg, and he tumbled to the ground. His head struck a rock, and he went still. Mark cried out, lunging forward before he could think better of it, but he was far too late; Cassandra stood over the prone swordsman, ready to deliver a killing blow.

Lyn blew in like a wind on the plains. Before Mark could even breathe, she was between Cassandra and her prey, blocking the strike that would have ended Guy’s life. She shoved their interlocked blades away, then brought her own up for a savage blow. Cassandra blocked it easily, but was forced to take a step back; then another; then another. Lyn bought the unconscious Guy some breathing room, and Mark took full advantage. He rushed in, took Guy by the arms, and dragged his body clear of the battle to where Renault was working. He checked the swordsman’s pulse to confirm he was, in fact, alive; but he couldn’t rouse Guy, and blood was already seeping from where his skull hit the stone.

Mark glanced up at the two women. Lyn and Cassandra moved like a whirlwind of dark hair and silver blades, ponytail and braid snapping as blades clashed again and again. It would have been beautiful, under different circumstances—and with different people.

 _It’s a race,_ he thought as Canas leaned over to heal Guy’s head wound. _Renault and Canas need to finish their work on the staff before Lyn and Cassandra finish each other._

For there was no holding back in this fight. Up against an enthralled morph, holding back meant death. If Lyn won the duel, then Mark lost the woman he loved.

And if Cassandra won, they were all as good as dead.

At the gates below, another soldier fell, and Farina’s gut clenched. This was not going well. Farina had forgotten just how hard morphs fought. Mark had hoped they’d be able to capture Peleus and force a surrender by now, but that ship had clearly sailed. There was motion on the mountain near where they’d dropped him and the others off, but no trussed-up or brainwashed morph leader commanding his underlings to surrender. They were going to have to survive this the old-fashioned way. And right now, even that was looking dicey.

She and the other fliers were harrying the enemy from above, keeping them from pressing the attack on any one portion of the ground troops for too long. There was only so much the five of them could do against a force of hundreds, though, especially in a pincer attack like this. If things didn’t change soon—

An arrow whistled past her, bringing her attention back to the present. The enemy had some archers among their ranks, because of course they did. Miraculously, none of them seemed as skilled as the sniper Mark had told them about, and so far, she, her sisters, her brother-in-law, and her brother-in-law’s crazy ex-commander had managed to avoid their arrows. That didn’t mean they could get complacent, though, and the archers were making it harder to keep the pressure off the cavalry.

Still, here was one she could do something about. Tracing the arrow back to its source, she spotted the archer, about twenty yards away and protected by a circle of swordsmen. If she moved quickly, she could dispatch the archer and be out of there before any of them landed a hit. She leveled her lance, spurred her pegasus, and shot forward.

The archer’s eyes should have widened, but the inhuman gold pinpricks didn’t change at all as she rushed toward them. The swordsmen closed ranks around their ward, blades raised defensively, but Farina soared over the waving weapons like trees rustling beneath her. The moment she had a good angle, she dove. Blades bit at her armor and her mount’s barding, but her lance struck true. The archer was thrust back, toppling a few of his guards before Farina managed to wrest her lance from his chest.

Dead. Mark wasn’t going to like that. But there’d been no other way, and he’d just have to deal with it, same as the rest of them.

She urged her mount upward, only to suddenly slide from his back. She caught a glimpse of a severed saddle strap—an absurdly lucky strike from one of the morphs’ swords—and then she was falling. She hit the ground with a jarring thud, momentarily stunned as she tried to right herself and pick up her dropped lance. No sooner did she close her fingers around the haft than there was a sword at her neck. She looked up into a set of merciless golden eyes, backed by a sea of others.

“Oh, crackers,” she muttered, as the swordsman flexed to strike.

He never got the chance. There was a loud impact, and he stumbled forward, falling over Farina to reveal a bloody gash in his back. Farina looked up to see Raven raising his blade against another of the morphs. “Come on!” he roared. “Let’s see what you’re made of!”

They were made, as it turned out, of pretty tough stuff. The swordsmen had Raven outnumbered, and quickly beat him back, but by then Farina had gotten back on her feet and brought her lance to bear. The morphs soon found themselves flanked, and after two of them fell, the rest scattered, trying to reposition themselves for a better attack.

“We’ve caught a little breathing room,” Raven panted, taking Farina’s shoulder. “Are you hurt?”

“No,” she said. Then she felt her side. “Ow! Ok, a little, but it’s just a bruise. I’ll be fine.”

Raven nodded and turned back to the battle. “It seems we got here just in time.”

Farina followed his gaze. Ostian banners flew above a line of infantry, with Dorcas, Karel, Jaffar, and many other familiar faces among them. Leading the charge was Hector, Armads sending morphs crashing to the ground left and right as he roared with the thrill of combat. Behind the front line, mages and archers provided cover, Wil loosing arrows alongside Louise, Erk and even Serra keeping the pressure on with spells. The reinforcements had all but taken the morphs by surprise, attacking their rear lines and putting the pincer maneuver in a pincer of its own. It was just as Mark had hoped would happen, if it came to this.

“You can say that again,” Farina said, waving to her pegasus, which was beginning to descend now that he had a clear landing spot.

Hector shouldered his way through the fray to their side. “Farina. Still kicking?”

“Still kicking, milord.” She went to the saddle and set about replacing the broken strap. “I’ll be ready to get back into it as soon as I fix this.”

“First, what’s the situation with Mark’s team?”

Farina pointed up the mountain. “We spotted Peleus’s command post and dropped the team off. There’s been no word.”

Hector frowned. “You’d better check on them.”

Farina opened her mouth to protest, but closed it again. He was right—they needed to know the situation, and with the reinforcements, she was no longer vital down here. Well, no longer _as_ vital. “Yes, milord.”

Hector looked down at Raven. The tension between them had evaporated in the heat of battle. “You should hang back with Grace. I’ll lead the charge.”

“Wait,” Farina said, gaping, “Grace is _here?_ ” She looked over the sea of soldiers to spot a single short figure riding sidesaddle near the rear lines. “ _Why?_ ”

Raven shook his head. “With respect, milord, the lines need both our strength. Grace has her escort, and her tome. She’ll be fine.”

“I’m sorry,” Farina said, “is nobody going to tell me why there’s a _pregnant woman_ on the _battlefield?_ ”

Hector looked dubious. “Priscilla will kill us if we let anything happen to her.”

“True,” Raven agreed. “But Priscilla will also kill us if we let anything happen to each other.”

Hector winced, and nodded. “Good luck, then.” He raised Armads, rallied the soldiers, and charged forward.

Raven turned back to Farina, and shrunk under her glare. “Priscilla wanted to come,” he explained. “It took both of us, as well as Anastasia and Serra, to convince her that she shouldn’t be riding. But she absolutely insisted Grace be allowed to go if she couldn’t.”

“And you agreed?”

“You try winning an argument against _two_ pregnant women,” Raven grumbled.

That did sound like a losing battle. Farina shrugged at him with a smile. “Sisters, am I right?”

“You are right.” He turned to go. “Fight well.”

“You too.” She finished with the strap and swung herself into the saddle. “Oh, and, uh… thanks for the save.”

“Don’t mention it.” He looked back at her, and the shadow of a smile passed over his face. “And for what it’s worth, I think blue’s a good color on me, too.”

Raven turned away before she had a chance to turn crimson. She leaned down, and muttered in her pegasus’s ear, “Remind me to punch Fiora when this is through.”

He shook his mane, and she spurred him back into the air.

“There!” Renault shouted, his hands trembling. “We’ve done it!”

Mark sprang to his feet. “You have?”

“Well, probably,” Canas said, running a hand through his increasingly unkempt hair. “The spellwork is certainly sound, but these aren’t exactly ideal working conditions—”

“We won’t know for certain until we try it,” Renault interrupted. He rose, cradling the now-reassembled staff in his arms. He turned to the combatants. Mark followed his gaze to where the rocks were slick with sweat and blood. Mark could hear Lyn panting between the clashes of blades; and while Cassandra showed no outward signs of weariness, she was definitely moving slower than he’d ever seen her in combat.

“Well?” Mark demanded. “Do it!”

Renault frowned. “We can’t. Not here.”

“ _What?”_ But even as he sputtered, he understood. “Because the staff will burn out?”

It was Canas who nodded. “If we use it here, it might— _might—_ work on Cassandra, but the rest of the morphs would be unaffected, and we don’t know if we’d be able to use it a second time. We need to get them all within range.”

Mark looked down at the battlefield. The infantry reinforcements had arrived, thank the gods. Now the morphs were either defending the garrison or trapped between the infantry and cavalry lines. They were indeed all concentrated in a small area, perhaps even small enough for the modified Fortify staff to cover them all. They were also a long ways off, down a steep mountain, and in the midst of a deadly melee. Getting the staff into the midst of all that was going to be difficult enough. Getting Cassandra down there…

“Mark,” Renault said, quietly, not softly. “We need a plan.”

Every second the battle went on, more fell on both sides—friends and comrades, no matter which way Mark looked at it. In time, they could subdue Cassandra, but how many would die in the battle below before that happened? Was her life worth all those that would be lost? His heart said yes, but his mind screamed against it. The tactical decision was obvious.

The decision Cassandra would _want_ him to make was obvious.

“Renault, cast your flashiest spell,” Mark called. “We need to signal the fliers and get one of them up here.”

“Actually,” Renault called, “one of the pegasus knights is already on her way.”

“Really?” Mark turned to find a distant white speck flying toward them. “Oh, good. Perhaps you shouldn’t—”

Renault raised his arm, and the mountainside erupted with a pillar of light. Mark flung up his arm to shield his eyes, but it still took several seconds of blinking before his sight returned to normal. Renault cast him an apologetic look. “I figured I should still signal our location.”

Mark had to admit he was right. _But I don’t have to like it._

It wasn’t long before Farina landed on the outcropping. “I saw your light show,” she asked. She looked at the swordfighters, eyes widening. “Are any of you going to help her?”

“I am,” Mark said. “But first, you have to get Canas and this staff into the middle of the morph army.”

Farina leaned forward in the saddle as Renault gave the staff to Canas. “Is today the ‘nobody makes sense’ festival, and I just forgot?”

“I’ll explain on the way,” Canas interjected before Mark could say anything. “But I’m afraid time is of the essence.”

Farina motioned to the saddle. “Well, hop on, then. What’s one more crazy gambit today?”

As soon as they were off, Mark turned to Renault. “How’s Guy?”

“Stable, but I’m not going to be able to wake him up anytime soon.”

“Then we’ll have to deal with Cassandra without him.”

“Agreed.” The old bishop pursed his lips. “I don’t suppose you have a plan for that, too?”

Mark turned back to the duel, still raging. _Lyn still looks fresh, but I’ve been through enough battles with her to know her limits, and she’s nearing them. I need to stop this now._

There was only other figure still standing on the rock, his eyes and his bow both lowered. Mark clenched both his fists, took a deep breath, and called out to him.

“Denning,” he said, “I need you to shoot me.”

Farina looked back at Canas, hoping she didn’t appear too dubious. The way he’d explained it, the entire outcome of the battle might hinge on this weird shaman and his weird staff. The idea that he might be able to put a stop to all of this with just a healing spell seemed… unlikely, at best. But then, she knew very little about staves. There was a reason she wasn’t a scholar herself.

Well, more than one reason. A lot of reasons, really.

“You’ve a better eye than I,” Canas called. “For this to work, we need to get as close to the center of the morphs as possible. Where should we land?”

Farina wasn’t sure why the passenger was giving the rider permission to pick out a landing spot, but she peered down at the battle regardless. Luckily, the demand made the spot an easy one. The morphs had their cavalry trapped between them; therefore, the center of the morph forces was in the midst of the human cavalry.

Actually landing in the middle of a bunch of warhorses struggling to deal with melee combat was another matter entirely. But she’d done more with less.

“Hold on,” she called, the only response Canas got to his question. She tucked into a dive, and Canas grabbed the saddle with a startled cry as they plunged forward. She was keeping a close eye on the movements of the horses; Sain falling back as Isadora moved forward, and just for a brief moment, there was enough space between them to fit a pegasus. And that’s where Farina fit her pegasus, gliding in and kicking up a torrent of dust and mud as they braked and landed in the narrow spot. Several of the horses around her reared in surprise, and she caught more than a few dirty looks form their riders, but they were soon distracted by the continuing battle. Nobody was hurt—just like she’d planned all along—and that was the important thing.

“Will this do?” she asked, craning her neck around to look at Canas.

The scholar had turned a little green during their descent, but he shook himself back to his senses and looked around. “I suppose it’ll have to,” he said at last, slipping from the saddle. “We’re not going to get a better chance than this.”

The reinforcements had helped ease the pressure on the cavalry, and they in turn were now pressing the attack harder than ever on the garrison, pushing to retake the carts of wounded humans the morphs had gathered. More and more enemies fell before them, some to their weapons, some to the non-lethal poisons Legault had provided. Farina even spotted Matthew himself weaving his way through the morph forces, bodies falling unconscious to the ground in his wake.

Kent and Sain were on them within moments of their landing. “What’s going on?” Kent asked.

“We’re going to try to solve all our problems with magic,” Farina explained.

“Ah.” Sain exchanged an uneasy glance with Kent. “Can we… help?”

Farina shrugged.

Canas shut his eyes and held up the staff, and Farina could feel the knights holding their breaths. It took her a moment to realize she was holding hers, too. Canas stood, still as a statue, the tip of the staff high in the air. His brow creased, and Farina felt hope slipping away. He lowered the staff and opened his eyes, and Farina realized this was the first time she’d ever seen him angry. “It’s not working.”

Silence seemed to reign, the noise of the battlefield suddenly seeming very distant. “Can you fix the staff?” Farina asked, without much hope.

“It’s not the staff,” Canas said. “It—” He put a hand to his forehead. “Fortify only affects allies. It’s designed that way to avoid healing any enemies within range. It’s the same thing that prevents you from accidentally using a sleep or berserk staff on an ally, only in reverse.”

The riders glanced at each other. “How does the staff know?” Farina said.

“It doesn’t,” Canas replied. “It goes off the user’s perception. Unless I see the morphs as allies—and they me—it won’t work.”

“Can you get around it?” Kent asked.

Canas held the staff at arm’s length, glaring at it like a misbehaving child. “Perhaps, but it’ll take time. I’ll need you to protect—”

“Wait!” Farina shouted, taking a step back. “Wait. I have a really bad idea.” She turned and swung herself into the saddle before anyone could say anything. “Don’t take apart that staff until I get back, ok?”

“What are you doing?” Canas called, reaching for her.

“Don’t worry!” She tugged the reins, and they were in the air, the others shielding their faces from the wind and dust from the wingbeats. “I’m going to bring a pregnant woman into the center of a battlefield!”

Everyone who heard those words turned to stare at her.

“I _said_ it was a bad idea.”

Lyn felt like she was fighting her own shadow. Cassandra could have been made using the quintessence of a Sacaean, the way she moved and fought like one of Lyn’s own tribeswomen. Every time Lyn thought she had an opening, Cassandra would snake out of the way and counterattack; and every time she saw the blade coming, Lyn had parried it perfectly before she could even think. The two of them were evenly matched, and Lyn wasn’t sure how this stalemate was going to break. Both of them were tiring, and even a morph was, in a sense, only human.

Except Cassandra would push herself to the breaking point and beyond. Which meant Lyn had to do the same, or she was as good as dead.

Their blades clashed, and Cassandra leaned in, her leering face filling Lyn’s vision. “You never did go all the way with him, did you?” she asked. “A pity. He may not be much of a specimen, but he’s useful as a distraction.”

Heat rose in Lyn’s chest, but her stance remained solid. She changed the angle of her blade, trying to slide it free.

Cassandra matched her, pressing back and keeping their swords locked. “Do you want to know what he smells like?” she said, a smile crossing her face. “Do you want to know what he _tastes_ like?”

Lyn suddenly stepped back—a dangerous gambit, but one that paid off. Cassandra lost her balance, and the split-second it took her to recover and press the attack was enough for Lyn to reverse her angle and swing forward, forcing the morph to take the defensive again. “We shared a tent for weeks,” Lyn growled. “I’ve smelled him plenty.”

Cassandra’s gold eyes darkened, and Lyn couldn’t help but smile. _Is she actually offended on his behalf?_ She danced forward with a series of strikes, not putting enough strength into them to penetrate Cassandra’s defenses, but forcing her opponent to focus on parries, not giving her another opening.

Even as she was driven back, Cassandra kept up the taunting. “It’s a shame your new man wasn’t up to the challenge,” she said. “You must be so disappointed.”

Despite herself, Lyn’s eyes flicked to Guy for a moment. Renault was tending to him, along with the fallen Luther, but her heart still ached at the sight of his unconscious body.

“Don’t worry,” Cassandra went on. “I’ll kill him before he ever gets a chance to mourn you.” She put on a pondering expression, at odds with the lightning-fast motion of her blade. “I’m not sure what I should do with Mark once you’re all dead, though. Keep him as a plaything? Or just be rid of him? The boy’s more trouble than he’s worth, wouldn’t you say?”

Lyn responded with a sudden thrust. Cassandra parried, but Lyn slid the blade forward and changed the angle, managing to slice into the morph’s side. She showed no sign of pain, but Lyn’s sword came away bloody, and she smiled at the small victory.

When Cassandra spoke again, it was through gritted teeth. “Or perhaps I should just—”

There was the snap of a bowstring, and both of them jumped backward on instinct. Only when she heard Mark’s cry of pain did Lyn realize who the shot was meant for. Looking up, she saw the tactician clutching his neck, blood trickling under his fingers, as Denning nocked another arrow to his bow.

Lyn moved like the wind; Cassandra moved like lightning. Before Lyn was even halfway across the outcropping, Cassandra was at Denning’s side. The archer was forced to abandon his shot as he ducked under Cassandra’s swing, dancing backward to try and get enough room for a shot. She didn’t give him the chance. Watching her blade was like watching a tornado tear across the plains, and Denning was just barely able to stay out of her reach.

Lyn stopped short, staring in disbelief. Even after seeing Cassandra impale Peleus, it was a shock to see her going after one of her own allies with even more ferocity than she’d fought Lyn with moments before. She was silent as the grave as she struck again and again, her face betraying no emotion; yet her frantic attacks spoke of an inner fury hot as the sun. Denning took another step back, then another—drawing ever closer to the edge of the outcropping. The mountainside wasn’t sheer, but it was steep enough that falling down it would break you. If Denning went over the edge…

“Cassandra!” Mark shouted, waving his hands. His wound was uncovered now, and Lyn could see that it was truly just a scratch, hardly bleeding at all. _Was that deliberate?_

Cassandra halted in her attack, though she didn’t turn from Denning or lower her blade. The archer likewise fell still, his hand twitching for his quiver, but remaining at his side.

“He’s one of your people,” Mark called. He took a step toward Cassandra, now holding his arms up in a calming gesture. “You have to protect your people.”

“He _attacked_ one of my people,” Cassandra growled. “I—”

“It’s your purpose, right?” Mark took another step. “You have to protect me. In all that time, I turned from being your prisoner to being… yours.”

Cassandra’s golden eyes narrowed.

“But Denning is one of your people too,” he said. “You have to protect him. And I’m confident that means you can’t attack him.”

Her sword wavered for the first time that day. Lyn reached for her own blade, ready to attack if needed.

“I have to protect Denning,” Cassandra agreed. “But I have to protect you, too.”

“It’s a paradox, isn’t it?” Mark said. “You have to protect me from Denning, but you also have to—”

“No!” she snarled, turning away. “No. I am allowed to punish insubordinates. He will pay for hurting my people.”

Denning’s eyes widened as she lunged. He dove to one side, dropping his bow and barely avoiding her blade. Lyn ran forward, trying to intercept her, but she’d have had better luck chasing down the wind. Both morphs were too fast—but Denning was defenseless, now, and Mark’s screaming wasn’t doing anything to dissuade Cassandra. Unless he could think of something else, someone was going to die—and Lyn had to make sure it wasn’t one of them. She gritted her teeth, raised her blade—

Again the bowstring snapped, and again Lyn instinctively ducked her head. She brought it up a moment later to a sight which, at first, she didn’t quite believe. Cassandra had gone still, and before her stood Denning, a confused look on his face—and an arrow protruding from his chest.

Lyn turned to see Mark holding the bow, his whole body shaking. “I’m so sorry, Denning,” he sobbed. “I’m so—”

Cassandra charged. Lyn moved to intercept, making a desperate slash to try and stop her, but all her blade came away with was hair; she’d cut the end of Cassandra’s braid, but the morph charged on unhindered, her hair coming loose in the wind. Mark dropped the bow as she swung.

The blade came to a halt a hair’s breadth from his throat. Cassandra herself all but stopped moving. She’d almost be still, were it not for the fact that she was trembling all over. Mark looked like he might drop dead of fear on the spot. But he, too, didn’t move.

“All right,” he said at last. “All right.”

Cassandra gritted her teeth, and, as though with great effort, pushed the blade forward. Mark winced, and a line of blood appeared at his neck. Lyn stepped forward, but stopped herself from intervening. Tears were filling Cassandra’s eyes, and she was trembling more and more with each passing second.

Mark focused all his attention on Cassandra, and for a moment, the pain left his eyes. “I love you.”

Cassandra screamed.

And her blade fell to the ground.

“They’ve broken the lines!” Sain shouted excitedly. “They’ve—gods, is that—”

Canas whipped around, following Sain’s gaze to the rear line of the cavalry—the direction Farina had flown. There was a mighty tumult in the morph ranks, and in a moment, the reason for it became clear. Hector and Raven burst through the morph lines, each wearing an identical expression of battle fury and all but trampling the foes before them. “Try to run!” Raven roared.

“Try to hide!” Hector answered, sending a morph flying with a swing from Armads.

Sain let out a low whistle. “I never thought I’d see the day when those two worked together.”

Canas was less interested in the fighters than in the rider behind them. Grace, still seated side-saddle, nevertheless was coaxing all the speed she could from her mount as she charged down the path Hector and Raven had cleared for her. Farina followed behind, making sure no morphs pursued Grace as she thundered past their lines.

“Special delivery,” Hector said, slinging Armads over his shoulder as he strode up to Canas. “Farina said you needed Grace?”

“Yes, er, well,” Canas said, glancing down at the staff. “It’s rather more complicated than that, to be honest. What we actually needed was—”

“We don’t have time for complicated,” Raven interrupted. He pointed to the staff. “Is that it?”

“That’s it,” Canas affirmed.

Grace rode up, not even bothering to dismount, and all but snatched the staff from Canas, inspecting it closely. She couldn’t have possibly discerned everything they’d done to it, but after a second of study, her eyes widened. “Yes,” she whispered. “Yes, this just might work.”

Without a moment’s hesitation, she lifted the staff. “Let there be an end.”

The gem blazed with light.


	19. Chapter 19

_It’s like a flower,_ Grace thought dumbly. Petals of light bloomed outward from the staff, embracing the battlefield and all who stood there. As the wave passed her, she could feel it peering into her mind, and, satisfied with what it saw, moving on.

The other morphs were not passed over so easily. Each one the blossom of light touched went rigid; blades would fall, and a few screamed before collapsing to the ground. Her heart thrummed with each fallen body. It only took an instant for the light to sweep over the entire valley, and fade into nothing; but it felt like an eternity as the morphs lay still on the ground.

Seconds passed. Human soldiers stared at their fallen adversaries in shock. Grace’s heart refused to slow as she lowered the staff, the gem now cracked and useless.

Beside her mount, Canas was suddenly swept off the ground by Hector’s crushing embrace. “You did it!” he shouted, looking over at Grace. “You both did!”

“We did _something,_ ” Canas wheezed, trying to wriggle free. “We can’t be sure of what yet.”

The humans still looked to each other in confusion, unsure of what to make of the situation. A few decided to press their advantage—until Hector’s bellow stopped them in their tracks. “Hold!” he cried. “ _Hold,_ damn you!” He deposited Canas on the ground, continuously scanning the battlefield. “How will we know if it worked?”

“We’ll know if they get up and don’t immediately try to kill you,” Grace murmured.

Long minutes passed before some of the morphs began to stir, and it seemed like the entire battlefield held its breath. They rose, slowly, clumsily, to their feet; the grace and determination of a few minutes before was gone. When their golden eyes turned up to the adversaries surrounding them, they were full of fear—genuine, _human_ fear. A few of them grabbed their fallen weapons and brandished them defensively, but didn’t attack. By some miracle, none of the humans struck either; they all maintained their stances, staring down the morphs, neither side making the first move.

It was Grace who broke the silence. “Lay down your weapons,” she called, her small voice carrying over the entire battlefield. “It’s over.”

“It’s over,” Lyn whispered, scarcely believing it herself. “The morphs have stopped fighting, and they’re laying down their arms.”

“Praise be to Elimine,” Renault murmured in reply. “Enough blood has been spilled already.”

They stood at the edge of the outcropping, surveying the scene below. Denning hung off Renault’s shoulder, clutching his recently-healed chest wound; and Guy, just recently awoken, was trying not to lean too hard on Lyn. “We won,” he said, voice weak.

“We won,” she echoed. She turned to him, putting a supporting arm around his waist. “How are you feeling?”

“Lucky to be alive,” he replied. He smiled at her. “Lucky in general.”

She smiled back.

“A message,” Denning whispered. Tears trickled from his golden eyes.

“We’ll have to get you fixed before we bring you to grace,” Renault murmured. He patted the red book, tucked safely into his belt. “I believe we’ll be more than able to.”

Lyn turned around. “What about her?”

Mark knelt on the rock nearby, his back to the group and the battlefield below. Cassandra lay on his lap, a trembling, sobbing mess. She hadn’t spoken a word since dropping her blade, and that was at least five minutes ago. Nor had Mark moved in all that time; he’d just cradled Cassandra, stroking the tangle of her unbraided hair, holding back his own tears as hers flowed freely. Lyn felt almost as though the four of them were intruding.

Denning lifted his hand, pointing at Cassandra. “Dread.”

Lyn shivered, and nodded.

“I await.”

Renault looked at him. “You’re certain?”

Denning nodded.

“I’ll need your help,” Renault said to Lyn and Guy as he lowered Denning to the ground.

“We’ll do whatever you ask,” Lyn said.

“Uh, right,” Guy murmured. “What she said.”

Once Denning was comfortably and safely lying down, the three of them made their way to Mark. He looked up at them as they knelt around him and Cassandra’s prone forms. His face was entreating, but his mouth remained shut.

“Hold her,” Renault said softly.

Guy and Lyn exchanged a glance, and gently took a hold of Cassandra’s limbs, Guy taking her ankles as Lyn held her wrists.

Renault looked up at Mark. “You should move.”

“No.” Mark’s voice sounded like it belonged to someone else.

“You’ll be hurt.”

“Then I’ll be hurt.”

Renault studied him a moment longer, and opened the book. He looked down at Cassandra, eyes softening. “I did not know you then. I wish I had. The work you did to save so many shall now be used to save you.”

He began to read aloud, and Lyn and Guy were suddenly forced to tighten their grips as Cassandra began to writhe, then thrash, then scream from the depths of her soul. Mark, at last, could hold back his tears no longer, and they merged with Cassandra’s on the rock below. She struck him again and again with her body, yet he did not flinch, did not speak, did not move; he just kept stroking her hair, crying all the while.

And then it was over. Renault finished reading, and Cassandra went suddenly and completely still. The change almost startled Lyn for how quickly it came; the only sign the morph was even still alive was her rapid, ragged breathing. Her hair had settled over her face. It was Mark who at last reached down and gently pushed it aside with his finger, revealing her wide, empty eyes, staring at the mountainside—or perhaps at nothing at all.

“Cassandra?” Mark asked. The emotion in his voice made Lyn choke.

Cassandra slowly turned her head, her vacant stare now fixed on him.

Mark’s face grew agitated. “Cassandra, please. Say something. Anything. Just—”

“Mark.” The word rose from her mouth like a bubble breaking on the surface.

Mark nodded, wetting his trembling lips. “Yes. Yes, it’s me.”

Cassandra’s hand slipped from Lyn’s now-loose grip, and lifted to Mark’s cheek. She blinked a few times, and her eyes seemed to focus at last. “Mark,” she said again, softer this time. “Is—is it really—” She swallowed, and her brow furrowed. “Am I—me?”

Mark’s hand quaked as he stroked her hair again. “Yes, Cassandra. You’re you.”

Her face broke, and the sobs returned. Mark clutched her to his chest, his whole body shaking. Lyn and Guy released her and stood, looking down at the two of them, unsure of what to say or do.

Renault, fortunately, gave them an out. “I’ll need your help with Denning and Luther as well,” he murmured.

“Right,” Lyn rasped. She swallowed, and nodded. “Right,” she said again, now that her voice was clear. “Come on, Guy.”

They moved back to where the archer lay, leaving Mark and Cassandra alone with their tears.

It was well past sunset by the time the fliers arrived on the outcropping, and darkness had claimed the sky when they finally landed in front of the outpost. Both sides were gathering up their injured and fallen; the humans were getting ready to transport them back to Ostia, while the morphs… well, Mark wasn’t sure where the morphs would go. Would they return to the fort with their reduced numbers and broken hearts? Or strike out for a new home, somewhere else?

He hadn’t let go of Cassandra the entire time they flew down. They were lucky that Hyperion was strong enough and willing to carry both of them as they glided into the valley. Lyn, Guy, Luther, and Denning rode with the others. Renault, somehow, had vanished before they’d mounted up. Heath kept glancing back at the two of them, as though he were worried Cassandra would stab him in the back; not that she was in any shape to fight, clutching Mark as much as she clutched the saddle, eyes squeezed shut and face buried in his shoulder. Still, Mark would have carried her down the mountain on foot if he’d had to. She was back—he was sure of that much. But she hadn’t spoken in what felt like ages, and wouldn’t meet his gaze. He was determined not to lose her again, for he feared this time he might not find her.

There were many warm greetings when they landed. Hector, of course, gave Mark one of his signature rib-crushing hugs, and there were slaps on the back from the other surviving humans; but Mark extricated himself from them as soon as he could, and made his way, hand-in-hand with the silent Cassandra, to the gates of the garrison. Denning and Luther trailed behind like twin shadows. Hector had posted a nominal guard around the morph survivors, but they did nothing to stop their approach, nor did they seem overly concerned about the morphs themselves as they gathered their dead and wounded. What had been deadly combatants moments ago were now a family in the throes of mourning.

 _At least Cassandra got revenge for them._ It was an ugly thought, but one he couldn’t quite chase away.

Gold eyes lifted to meet them, and there were cries of relief. “You’re alive!” Bennet cried, rushing forward. The human guards flinched at his approach, but their weapons remained sheathed. “You’re all alive!”

Mark was surprised when the large morph took them all in his arms, squeezing almost as hard as Hector had. He was further surprised when Denning and Luther both returned the embrace. “We’re alive,” Denning echoed. “And we’re ourselves again.” He threw his head back and shouted in to the night. “This is _not_ a message from _anyone,_ and I’m not awaiting a damn thing!”

Bennet responded by squeezing them tighter, and Mark had to wriggle free. Bennet looked down at Cassandra, and his face sobered. “I guess I should report to you,” he said. “We—”

“Not now.” It was the first thing she’d said since the mountain, and Mark was shocked at the voice that came from her lips. It sounded like a wine glass already falling to the floor, waiting to shatter. “Let’s just do what we can.”

Bennet nodded, and turned back to the morphs, returning to whatever he’d been doing. Cassandra stepped forward, slipping her hand from Mark’s. He immediately grabbed for her, but she shook her head. “Please,” she whispered.

His heart cracked, but Mark lowered his hand and watched her go.

“You should go too,” Denning said softly. “There are many here who would be happy to see you alive.”

Mark moved through the camp feeling like a ghost. Most of the others looked like ghosts, too. He stopped in surprise at a familiar figure standing beside a cart and wearing an elegant dress, though it was now ripped, stained, and singed from battle. “You’re alive,” he said dumbly.

Ellain turned to him, and for the first time since they’d met, she did not greet him with a smile. “Despite my best efforts.” She turned back to the cart—Mark was shocked to realize it was full of wounded humans, most of them unconscious. She nodded as though satisfied, and turned to leave.

Mark caught her arm. “Gavin?”

Ellain halted. “Peleus wouldn’t let me see,” she said. “And by the time we got out here, he wouldn’t let me care.” She pulled away. “I need to find a horse.”

Mark let her go, and looked at the cart of prisoners. They were all alive, as far as he could tell; in fact, there was a spent healing staff lying on the ground. He looked after Ellain once more.

“Did we win?” one of the survivors croaked.

Mark started, and went to the man, checking him over. His wounds had been healed, though he was still exhausted. Mark took in the uniform. “Lieutenant Sanders?” he asked.

Sanders nodded, wincing at the effort. “Did we win?” he asked again.

“I don’t think anybody won today,” Mark answered.

The lieutenant’s hands tightened into fists. “Bastards,” he muttered.

Mark felt his own bile rising. “It wasn’t their fault.”

“They killed my men,” the lieutenant spat. “Whoever’s fault it was doesn’t change that.”

Mark opened his mouth for an argument, and found none. What could he say to make it make sense?

_What could I say to make any of this make sense?_

He left the cart as Ellain returned with a horse. Most of the morphs worked in morose silence, but there were a few sobbing voices that lifted above the ruin. Mark followed one to its source; Moriel, who sat, face buried in her hands, crying with her whole body. Percy stood by her, his white flank stained with mud and blood, his tack lying in a disorganized pile a few feet away.

Mark knelt next to Moriel and gently placed a hand on her shoulder. She jerked up, staring at him like she was hallucinating. “You’re here,” she whispered.

Mark nodded.

“At least something went right,” she said, lowering her hands.

Mark looked at Percy, then at her. “Durran?”

She shook her head. “He’s fine. I saw him just a few minutes ago.”

Mark nodded, but he couldn’t help but notice the sorrow in her eyes. He thought it over a second longer. “Deichtine?” he ventured.

Moriel’s lips trembled, and she returned her face to her hands as her sobs began anew.

All around the outpost, it was the same thing. The survivors outnumbered the fallen, but each morph that had fallen took with them the happiness of all who knew them. Mark felt like he was walking among the living dead. He felt like one of them himself.

He wasn’t sure when the preparations were completed. It just happened that everyone started moving away, out of the outpost and back toward the fort. The Ostian guards watched them go without interfering; the morphs didn’t even bother to look at them. Ellain led a cart of human survivors back to where Hector and the humans waited, others following after her. They returned leading carts ladened with injured and dead morphs. Mostly dead.

Cassandra found Mark before he could find her. She emerged from the sea of bodies, standing before him as the rest of the morphs flowed around them like an island in the stream. The pain on her face made him want to take her in his arms, kiss her deeply, and tell her everything was going to be all right. It would have been a lie, but he longed to say it.

“We’re leaving,” Cassandra said at last, finally breaking the silence. She was looking at his cloak’s clasp.

Mark waited to se if she would say more before responding. “We?” he finally asked.

She pulled her arms around herself. He’d never seen her look so small before. “You should go back,” she said softly. “To Ostia.”

“No.”

“Mark, please—”

He stepped forward and took her hands. With her strength and speed, she could have broken away in a heartbeat; instead, she just let him pull her arms up, her fingers hanging limply in his. “Cassandra,” he said, “they were my friends too. The fort has become my home. And with Peleus gone, the danger is passed, and—”

“It’s not just that,” she whispered. Her fingers closed around his. “There is… there is so much to do. So many dead to bury. So many wounds to heal. So many wrongs to right.”

“Let me help.”

She smiled, and it was the sweetest thing he’d ever experienced. “I know you want to. I want it too. But I can’t let you.” She looked around at the mass of bodies moving past them. “They need me to be strong, Mark. And I need to know I can be strong.”

Mark’s heart was falling through his chest. “I’m stronger with you,” he murmured.

“And I with you. But this is a moment where I need to know I can be strong alone.” One of her hands slipped from his and went to her temples. “What Peleus did… you can’t understand. You can try—I’m sure you are trying—but you’ve no idea what it was like.”

He wanted to deny it, but couldn’t.

“I know you want to help me. But right now, what I need from you is for you to be safe, and let me be the leader my people need.”

Mark’s throat was filling up again. “And then?”

Cassandra shrugged helplessly. “I don’t know, Mark. I don’t know when the scars Peleus left will fade, or if they ever will.” She looked up—not at him, but past him, to where the humans were tending to their own dead and wounded. “I do know that we can’t stay in the fort anymore.”

“Cassandra—”

“You know it as well as I. Before, our peace with Ostia was tenuous, but now…”

“They know it wasn’t your fault.”

“Do they?” She met his gaze at last, and he almost shrank from the steel inside it. “All of them? Can you guarantee not one among their number blames us for the friends and comrades they lost today? That nobody will seek their revenge in the time to come?”

He thought of Sanders, and said nothing.

“But.” She took his hand once more, and managed to force a smile. “Another thing I know is that I still love you. And I think I always will.”

Mark found himself smiling back. “Even if I’m not at your side?”

“You’ll be where you need to be.” She met his gaze at last. “If I never see you again, at least I’ll know that.”

Mark leaned forward and kissed her, and she did not push him away.

When they finally parted, most of the morphs had gone. Only Denning and Grace remained, watching the two of them with sad eyes. “I _will_ see you again,” Mark whispered.

Cassandra shut her eyes. “Goodbye, Mark.”

She slipped from his grasp, and turned into the night.


	20. Chapter 20

_Seven days since the battle. True to her word, Cassandra has evacuated the fort. She even managed to somehow slip past Matthew’s spies. I don’t know whether to be grateful, or break down crying._

“You’re not upset?” Serra asked as she poured another kettle of water into the tub. “Grace did leave without saying good-bye.”

Priscilla swirled the water about in the tub to mix it together, smiling up at Serra. “If there’d been more time, I’d have liked to see her off before the morphs vanished to gods-know-where. But the circumstances being what they were, I can understand the need for haste.” She sniffed at the steam rising off the water. “Are you… sure this isn’t too hot?”

“Huh? Of course I am.” Serra dipped her finger in to check. “It’s perfect.”

“It’s just… too much heat isn’t good for the baby, and this seems a fair bit warmer than Anastasia usually prepares.”

Serra lifted her nose. “Well, perhaps Anastasia doesn’t know much about babies.”

Priscilla looked at her levelly. “Anastasia was a midwife before Hector brought her on as my handmaiden.”

“Well… perhaps…” Serra dipped her hand in the water again, and winced. “Perhaps this is too hot.”

Priscilla smiled at her.

Serra poured in a couple buckets of cold water without comment. Priscilla was lowering herself into the bath when both women were startled by a knock at the chamber door. “Go on,” Priscilla said, waving her away. “I’ll be all right.”

It took Serra a moment to realize that _she_ was supposed to answer the knock. She strode out of the bath chamber, shutting the door behind her, and pulled open the front door. She was confronted by the broad frame of Raven, looking slightly less scowly than usual—at least, until he saw her. “What are you doing here?” he growled, looking around.

“There was an emergency in town, and Anastasia was called away,” Serra said primly. “I volunteered to take care of your sister until she returns. It was a good opportunity to spend some time with my cousin.”

Raven raised an eyebrow. “And to remind everyone of how generous you are?”

Serra could hear the sarcasm, but chose to rise above it. “Have you come to see her?”

“More or less. Where is she?”

“She’s in the bath.”

“Thanks.” Raven stepped forward, all but pushing past her, and started toward the bath chamber.

“Raven!” Serra shouted, starting after him.

He stopped and turned. “Yeah?”

“She’s in the bath.”

“So?” He crossed his arms.

“She’s _naked_.”

“So?”

Serra could only stare at him for a moment.

“Oh.” He glanced at the door. “Right. Guess I’ll come back later.” He turned back to Serra. “But I’m also here to see you.”

That caught Serra off-guard. “I beg your pardon?”

“Come with me.” He brushed past her once more, leaving through the still-open door. Serra hurried after him, more out of curiosity than any sense of obligation.

After a few twists and turns, she was beginning to get a sense of their destination. “Raven,” she breathed—she was certainly not panting—“where are we going?”

He glanced at her, and his smile was somehow more intimidating than his scowl could ever be. “This time, I’m not the one who’s been avoiding people.”

She almost wanted to turn and leave right then and there, but propriety demanded she just glare at him instead. “I’ll get you for this.”

“I look forward to it.” He stopped in front of a door and knocked.

After a moment, it swung open, and Lucius blinked at them. “Lord Raymond,” he said, and then he peered at her. “Sister Serra? I haven’t seen you since the battle last week.”

“I meant to come by, but I was too busy.” She knew as she said the words that she spoke too quickly, and cursed herself.

Raven hid his smirk by rubbing his face. “Uh, Lucius,” he said. “I’m going to be leaving soon.”

Lucius tilted his head. “I see. And…”

“You should stay,” Raven went on. “You still haven’t recovered from… well, everything.”

Lucius’s eyes went to Serra, and she fought back a blush. “I’d like that,” the monk said. “But I can’t allow you to be alone.”

“He won’t be alone.”

The three turned to find Farina striding toward them, an irritatingly wide smile on her face. “What are you doing here?” Raven asked, not scowling quite as much as Serra would have expected.

“Looking for you,” she said, stopping a few feet away. She turned to Lucius. “Raven’s convinced me to take him on.”

“That’s not—”

“We’re going to be partners,” she interrupted. “Doing the same traveling mercenary thing we’ve been doing, just… together.”

Serra looked from Raven to Farina and back again. She could see Lucius doing the same, and could feel him drawing the same conclusions she was. “Oh,” he said softly, eyebrows raising just a hair. “I see.”

“I’ll be by to check on you when I can,” Raven said. He hesitated, and added in a soft voice, “This isn’t good-bye.”

Lucius’s smile was unusually broad. “Of course not, milord. Thank you for your consideration.”

Raven hugged him, and then turned to Farina. “We’ve got work to do,” he said over his shoulder. “See you around.”

Farina waved as the two of them strode off together. Once they were almost to the corner, she hooked her arm around his. He didn’t pull away.

“Wow,” Serra murmured as she turned back to Lucius. “I did not see that coming.”

She fell silent as soon as she saw him. His gaze was squarely on her—probably had been the entire time. She tried not to squirm, and cleared her throat. “Um,” she began. “So, before, when… uh…”

“I missed you,” he said softly.

Whatever barriers Serra had erected in her heart broke at those three words. She quickly turned from him, so he wouldn’t see her lips trembling.

“I know I’ve no right to say that,” he went on, sadness permeating his words. “I left so soon after being gone so long.”

“It was a crisis.” Serra whispered. She sniffed, wiped at the tears threatening her eyes, and turned back to him, chin held high. “But the crisis is over,” she said, managing to keep her voice from shaking.

Lucius took a step to one side. “Would you like to come in?” he said. “There’s something I’d like to discuss with you.”

Propriety demanded—

“I thought you’d never ask,” she said briskly, sweeping past him.

Priscilla could enjoy her soak for a while longer.

_Fifteen days. Snow’s begun to fall in Lycia. I have returned to my work as a tactician. Our allies continue to go their separate ways, including some very dear friends._

Lyn fingered the hilt of her blade as Hector looked down at the rolled-up letter before him, the Caelin seal emblazoned proudly in the unbroken wax. Clearly, he didn’t need to open it to know its contents. “And I can’t convince you otherwise?” he said, looking up.

Lyn shook her head. “This has been in the works for months, Hector. You know that.”

“I do,” he sighed. “But all that time, I’ve been hoping you’d change your mind. When you leave, Caelin loses a great leader. Lycia loses a great ally.” He rose, pushing his chair slowly back from the table. “And I lose a great friend.”

“We all do,” Eliwood agreed. He stood at Hector’s side. It seemed only appropriate that the two be together for this, as they had been most of the time she’d known them.

Lyn smiled at the two of them. “I thank you for your kind words. But this life was never for me. I am pleased to have been of service to my grandfather in his final days, and to the people of Caelin after his passing.” She lowered her gaze. “But it’s time to move on.”

“We’ll miss you,” Eliwood offered.

“And I’ll miss you.” She eyed Hector. “Despite myself.”

He didn’t bother hiding his amusement.

Lyn’s smile sobered. “Have you made all the arrangements?”

“Kent will be made steward of Caelin territory,” Hector replied. “He was reluctant to accept the offer. But I think he’s grateful to be carrying on your work.”

“And my grandfather’s.” Lyn glanced around. “I entrust the rule of Caelin to you, then.”

Hector blinked, as though being struck by the finality of it all. “I wish I could refuse. But I couldn’t keep you here any more than I could contain the wind.” He put a fist to his chest. “We’ll take care of Caelin.”

“Good-bye, Lyn,” Eliwood said softly. “Be safe.”

“I will.”

And then she was no longer Lady Lyndis of Caelin; she was once more Lyn of the Lorca, free to do as she pleased. And Lyn of the Lorca wanted nothing more than to round the table and embrace her two friends.

“Oh!” Eliwood exclaimed in surprise.

“She’s got a tighter grip than I do,” Hector choked.

Lyn gave them one final squeeze before letting go. All three had tears in their eyes. “Thank you for everything,” she said. “I’ll visit someday.”

“You damn well better,” Hector said, patting her on the shoulder. “Until then.”

“Until then.”

There were many more good-byes to be said. Her knights were all waiting for her outside; like Hector, they were probably hoping she’d change her mind at the last minute. But Sacae was calling her, and she could ignore it no longer. Kent would serve as steward, and Wil had promised to stay as well. She couldn’t imagine Sain leaving Kent’s side—though there’d been talk of him striking out on his own, which was bad news for the women of Elibe. Florina and Heath would probably return to Ilia, working together as wingborne mercenaries, playing with Fiora’s girls, and hopefully starting a family of their own. Lyn resolved to visit them all when time allowed, however long that took.

But it was not her knights she found just outside the door to Hector’s audience chamber. To his credit, Guy was doing his best to look casual, like he’d just stopped there to rest for a while. He didn’t even look at Lyn until she cleared her throat. “Oh, hey,” he said, feigning a surprised smile. “How’d it go?”

“It went.” She shifted her weight, eyeing him. “What are you doing here?”

He shrugged. “Nothing, really. I was thinking of heading to the barracks for some training.”

“I meant, what are you still doing here? Rath and the others left days ago.”

Guy blinked. “Right. Well, um.” He coughed. “I kind of wanted to talk to you about that, actually.”

Lyn nodded.

“You’re heading back to Sacae, too, right?”

“Yes.”

“Alone?”

“I’m the last of the Lorca. Who’d go with me?”

“What? Lots of people. Florina would. Kent probably would.”

Lyn smiled. He was probably right. “True enough. But they have homes, lives, families. They don’t belong on the plains.”

“Maybe.” He shifted. “But… I do.”

Lyn tilted her head. “And?”

“And… maybe _I c_ ould go with you?”

Lyn remained silent.

“I know you can take care of yourself,” he said quickly. “You survived on your own, and you protected Mark when you found him. It’s just… you shouldn’t _have_ to be alone, you know? If you don’t want to.” He watched her for a moment. “Of course, if you _do_ want to, I’ll shut up and—”

“Guy.”

He perked up at once. “Yeah?”

Lyn finally let a smile cross her face. She’d been wondering if Guy would ever make the first move, or if she’d have to do it herself. Evidently, he’d finally worked up the courage to speak to her, and she couldn’t be happier.

“I’ll think about it,” she said.

_One month. I’m fast approaching the point where I’ll have been away from Cassandra for longer than I was with her. The others are worried about me, I know. I can do little to alleviate their fears besides fulfilling my duties._

It still felt strange, having Jaffar of all people sitting next to him on the battlements as Matthew watched the rising sun. He rubbed his eyes. _I’m tired. I shouldn’t be tired already._

“We’re leaving today,” Jaffar murmured.

“You and near everyone else,” Matthew replied. “I guess they’re all finally satisfied the morphs aren’t going to pop out of nowhere and attack us.”

“You still harbor guilt.”

Matthew glared at him. “Quite an eye you’ve got there. Be a shame if someone were to take it.”

“Hmm.” Jaffar crossed his arms. His eyes were still on the horizon.

Matthew followed his gaze, sighing. “Where will you go?”

“To find Nino. Legault’s told me where Jan is. He might know something.”

“Does Erk know about this?”

“Erk’s the one who asked me to help him look.”

Matthew raised his eyebrows. “Well. That’ll be interesting.”

Jaffar said nothing.

“What happens when you find her?”

“We make sure she’s safe.”

“And?”

“And then it’s up to her.”

Matthew nodded. _Leila never had a choice. Neither did the morphs._

“Matthew.”

The word sounded strange coming from him. “Yeah?”

“Thank you. For asking me here.” Jaffar adjusted his robes. “In the end, I don’t think I helped much. But it meant a great deal to me.”

Matthew frowned. “I’m not even sure what I wanted anymore. I tried to force a confrontation, and… well, I got one.”

“When you’ve seen as much bloodshed as we have,” Jaffar said, “it seems the be the first thing you think of, yet the last thing you want.”

Matthew grimaced. “I hate how right you are.”

Jaffar smirked.

“You know what Mark said?” Matthew sighed. “After I told him this was all my fault?”

“He said he forgave you.”

“He said he forgave me.”

“That sounds like Mark.”

“I don’t know if the morphs will forgive me,” Matthew murmured.

“Do you want them to?”

Matthew stretched, leaning back on the battlements. “I don’t know. I wouldn’t, if I was any good at my job.”

“Maybe it’s time for a change of vocation.”

“You really think I can just turn off that part of myself?”

“In time.”

Matthew looked at Jaffar. The former assassin’s eyes had gone distant. “Is it really that easy?” Matthew asked softly.

“No,” Jaffar said. “It’s hard. And it’ll continue to be hard for a long time.”

“And then?”

The sun cleared the horizon, and Jaffar turned from it at last. “And then you’ll wake up one day, and realize that life has taken more of your attention than death.”

Matthew tossed a pebble of the battlements. His ears focused hard, cutting out the sounds of the slowly-waking castle, until he heard it strike the ground below.

“That sounds nice,” he murmured.

Jaffar’s smile was disgustingly genuine. “It is.”

_Spring has come at last. With it, I’ve decided to leave Ostia and resume my travels. It’s been months since I arrived here… since the garrison battle. Part of me hates to admit it, but it’s time to move on._

“You’re going to quit?” Mark said, aghast.

“Retire,” Matthew corrected. “I’m going to retire.” He pulled a book off the vendor’s display, flipping through it. “Hmm. ‘Epic of the End.’ If it’s the end, why is this one volume fifteen?”

“Never heard _that_ one before,” the bookseller growled.

“Don’t change the subject,” Mark said, pushing the book away. “You’re in charge of Ostia’s entire network—”

Matthew dropped the book back in its place. “And as of next week, Gorlois will be in charge of it instead.”

Mark paused. “Who?”

“Exactly.”

Mark grimaced. “You love your job. You love Ostia.”

“I’m _tired_ of my job,” Matthew sighed, making a show of perusing the texts. “I’m tired of… well not of Ostia, I suppose. I’m just tired.”

Mark studied him. “What’s really going on, Matthew?”

Matthew picked up another book. “I wrote to _everyone_ who aided us five years ago. So much had changed for all of them. But I’m still in the same place, doing the same thing.” He shook his head. “I thought it was what I wanted to do. Then Luther happened, and the battle, and now…”

“Your writing everyone prevented a lot of deaths,” Mark pointed out.

“It caused many, too.” Matthew showed him the cover. “This one says ‘The Ocean of Stars.’ Any interest?”

“Stop trying to distract me.” Mark eyed the book. “But yes, I’m interested in that one.”

Matthew smiled, and set the book before the vendor. “About damn time you made a choice,” she grumbled, taking Matthew’s gold.

“Always a pleasure.” Matthew handed the book to Mark, and the two walked off. Once they were well clear of the surly bookseller, Matthew glanced at his companion. “So, you going to try to talk me out of it?”

Mark looked down. “I feel like I ought to. But honestly, Matthew, if retiring makes you happy, I can’t conscience advising you against it.”

“Well.” Matthew inclined his head. “Thanks for that. Besides, with you leaving, it’s going to get downright boring around here.”

Mark glanced over the book. _The Ocean of Stars._ Sounded intriguing. “What will you do?” he asked.

“That, I’m not sure of,” Matthew sighed. He nodded to a group of young women, whose giggles trailed after them. “Can’t say I’m suited for farm work. Maybe it’s time I became an honest thief.”

“As opposed to a dishonest thief?”

“As opposed to a spy posing as a thief.” He stretched toward the afternoon sun. “Perhaps I should leave Ostia, at least for a time. I feel like a change of scenery.”

“You could always come with me,” Mark said, chuckling. “I never know when I’ll need a bodyguard.”

Matthew must have noticed how forced the chuckle was, because he reached out and laid a hand on Mark’s shoulder. “This is the spot, isn’t it?” he said softly.

Mark looked up to find the horseshoe shape of the Ostian market spread before them. The bookseller behind them was one of a sea of vendors that set up here in the hopes of hawking their wares, while people came from across the marchy to stock up on supplies.

“Yeah,” he said softly. “This is the spot.”

A lifetime ago, and a few feet away, Cassandra had knocked him over while pursuing a cutpurse. It was that chance meeting that had led to his becoming her captive, her advisor, her friend, and—

He shook himself. “I guess a part of me is still waiting.”

Matthew rubbed his face. “Wherever they went, they’d need to hunker down for the winter.”

_If they survived the winter._

“Now that spring’s come,” Matthew went on, “and people aren’t tracking them—”

“People like you?”

“—Cassandra might decide to reach out to you.”

Mark glanced at him. “I thought you’d be telling me I need to forget her and move on.”

“Well, it turns out I’m not _always_ a horrible friend.”

Mark smiled. He opened his mouth to speak when Matthew held up a hand. The spy— _former_ spy—looked around, grimacing. “Though it seems I’m a pretty poor bodyguard.”

Mark snapped to attention, looking around. “What do you mean?”

“Just that, once again, I’ve managed to distract myself while we’ve gotten ourselves surrounded.”

“I’d say ‘flanked’ is more the proper term,” came a soft, low, and familiar voice from their right.

Mark hardly dared to turn his head—yet he couldn’t resist. A cloaked figure stood a few feet away, the crowd moving around him as though by instinct. He lifted his head, and Mark could see golden eyes peering at him from under the hood. Blood-red lips turned up into a smile. “This is a message from Lady Cassandra.”

“Denning!” Mark launched himself at the morph; Denning’s hood fell back as they collided. The archer quickly returned the embrace, laughing. “Where the hell have you been?” Mark asked.

“Oh, calm down,” growled another voice from behind. “It hasn’t been _that_ long.”

Mark’s breath caught as he turned. “Gavin?”

“You aren’t going to tackle-hug me, too, are you?” Gavin asked as he lowered his own hood.

“You’re alive,” Mark whispered, stepping forward and seizing Gavin’s hands in his own. “I thought…”

Gavin’s face softened as he looked down at their hands. “Peleus decided killing me was a waste of resources. I was in the garrison, stealing supplies, when Grace used the freedom staff. I must have been just at the edge of its range—but it worked on me just as it did everyone else.”

Mark let go of Gavin’s hands, only to wrap his arms around the morph himself. “Thank the gods.”

“All right,” Gavin grumbled, pushing him away. “Enough of that.”

“Are you going to kidnap him again?” Matthew asked, glancing between the two morphs—Denning on the right, Gavin on the left. “I’m still technically his bodyguard, so if you’re going to try to kidnap him again, I should at least try to stop you.”

“We’re not here to kidnap you,” Denning said, looking over at Mark. “We’re here to invite you.”

“To where?” Mark asked, heart brimming with hope.

Denning and Gavin exchanged a smile. “To our Arcadia.”

_I’m home._

“Well,” Matthew muttered. “That is something.”

Standing between him and Denning, Mark had to agree. The new morph community was nestled in the Etrurian mountains; two peaks rose around it, but they’d already spent half the day climbing a well-concealed path just to get here. A lake filled the space between the two, and the morphs had set up on its shores. The surrounding forest provided wood for fire and construction, and game animals roamed the area; and the lake provided fresh water, fertile soil, and some fish. The secluded area was away from common flight paths for wyverns and pegasi, and was high enough up that nobody was likely to stumble across it. Anyone who did would have to deal with the natural fortifications of the mountain valley. They’d occupied the fort out of convenience, but this place was truly perfect for them.

The only thing it was missing was dwellings, and the morphs were already hard at work at that. Cabins and cottages were going up all over the place, along with a large covered area for communal meals or gatherings and workshops for making goods. They were building individual houses, rather than cramming into existing rooms as they had in the fort, which meant there were a lot more houses to build; but couples and close friends shared dwellings, making the process faster. Durran was supervising the construction, his towering figure and booming voice directing the others in their work even as he dragged around whole trees to be cut up for lumber.

Matthew turned to the lake. “If I were the sentimental type, I might say this is a lovely spot.”

Mark grinned at his friend. “I still can’t believe you’re here.”

“ _I_ still can’t believe that Gavin asked me to come.” He looked over at Denning.

The morph gave an enigmatic smile. “We were asked to bring you, if possible.”

“Yeah, but by whom? And why?”

Denning responded by plucking at his bowstring.

Matthew shrugged. “Well, I did say I could use a change of scenery.” He looked Denning over. “How did you manage the winter?”

“We split up,” Denning responded.

Mark snapped his head around. “ _What?_ ”

“I know how you feel,” Denning said with a laugh. “I couldn’t believe it either when Cassandra suggested it. But it made sense. A few of us pretending to be siblings in a village here, a couple helping out on a farm there… we all found people to take us in. Lived alongside them for months.” He scratched his chin. “But when the spring came, we longed to be together. And Cassandra found us, every one. Just as before.”

Mark could only shake his head.

Matthew glanced over his shoulder. “Hate to interrupt, but I think I see the welcoming committee.”

Mark turned, and his smile returned. Gavin was returning arm-in-arm with Ellain, Grace at their side. Luther trailed the three of them. Grace was visibly further along and moving slower, but showed no signs of pain or even discomfort. Ellain had put on one of her best dresses—though Mark wasn’t sure she had any dresses that weren’t “one of her best.” Once she got close enough, he was delighted to see that she wore a wedding band that matched perfectly the one Gavin had under his gloves, which Mark had been dying to ask about for days.

Ellain slipped her arm from Gavin’s and went straight for Mark, seizing him in an embrace. He managed not to blush as her chest pressed against his. “I was beginning to wonder if the boys would ever find you,” she said as she released him.

“How are you?” he asked, looking from her to Gavin.

“We’re all right,” Grace said, her smile taking on a sad tinge. “We lost many friends. But we’ve had time to mourn and time to start rebuilding.”

Ellain patted Mark’s cheek. “Everyone’s going to be happy you’re back. It may not have been intentional, but you’re one of us now.”

Luther stepped forward, clearing their throat. They smiled—the first time Mark had ever seen it. “Welcome back,” they said, before turning to Matthew. The smile faded. “Are you Matthew?”

Matthew nodded slowly, his eyes roving over the morph.

“My name’s Luther,” they said, putting a hand to their chest. “I asked Gavin and Denning to bring you.”

Eyebrows raised all around. “Oh?” was all Matthew could manage.

“I understand your men found me and left me near the fort.”

Matthew came as close as he ever did to going stiff.

Luther’s smile returned, warmer than before. “Thank you,” they said softly. “Without you, I’d never have found my place.”

Matthew’s jaw actually dropped. “But,” he said, “it’s because of me that you—”

“You give yourself too much credit,” Gavin said, giving Matthew a nudge. “Peleus would have found a way sooner or later.”

“You gave Luther a home, dear,” Ellain added, patting Matthew on the cheek. “We’re _all_ grateful for that.”

Luther cleared their throat again, and Mark saw a hint of a blush at their cheeks. “Perhaps,” they said, glancing at Ellain, “while you’re here, I could… make you dinner?”

It was Mark’s turn to gape.

“Sure,” Matthew answered at last. Mark had to admire his acting skills; anyone else would have been fidgeting uncontrollably. “That could be nice.”

They started toward the dwellings, Ellain taking Mark’s arm. Gavin walked ahead, though he kept glancing back at them, and getting as close as he ever did to smiling. “How’s he been?” Mark whispered to Ellain. “Since you… well…”

“Since we died for each other?” she asked.

Mark grimaced.

Ellain paused before going on. “I… made myself a promise, years ago. And I worried that would make it impossible for me to make Gavin happy. But when I finally told him, he told me—well. I suppose it’s not my place to share.” She smiled wistfully and touched her ring. “Suffice it to say, we’re together. Not in the most conventional way, perhaps. But we’re together.”

“Conventional or not, I’m happy for you both.”

Ellain gave him a brilliant smile. “Not as happy as I am.”

When they reached the line of houses, everyone paused in their work to call out to Mark. They didn’t exactly all rush over to greet him, but those who were able to set down their tools did shake his hand or at least wave as they passed. Each greeting filled Mark’s heart further. _They really consider me one of them. It’s like they always assumed I’d be back—all the while I was wondering if I’d ever hear from them again._

One figure approached—a figure whose hair was not black, but grey, and whose eyes were not gold, but—

“Renault?” Mark gasped.

The bishop smiled at him. “Nice to see you again, too.”

“What are you doing here?” Matthew asked. He sounded as shocked as Mark felt.

“Helping.” Renault lifted the hammer he’d been holding.

“That’s not what I—”

“Cassandra has decided that this place will be home to those with nowhere else to go.” Renault lowered the hammer. “And I, at least, may be able to find the peace here I’ve been searching for all this time.”

Ellain smirked at Mark. “You didn’t think ‘morphs and humans living in peace’ meant only one human, did you?”

“Two humans,” Gavin corrected, motioning at Matthew.

Matthew crossed his arms. “I haven’t agreed to stay yet.”

“You’ve agreed to stay for dinner,” Luther pointed out.

And then Mark saw Cassandra, and the rest of the world seemed to fade.

She’d been directing some workers hoeing a field when she spotted him, and she immediately started toward him, her work abandoned. Mark’s heart went from thumping to racing to pounding in the space of a few breaths. Her smile grew brighter the closer she got to him, lighting up the whole valley; until at last, she was standing mere inches away.

“Welcome back,” she whispered.

“I missed you,” he replied.

She seized him and kissed him, and his world became her. They’d been apart nearly half a year, yet at the moment their lips met, every ounce of their separation crumbled as they held each other close.

They parted, and Mark became aware of the stares they were drawing from everyone around them. Cassandra didn’t seem to mind. “Come with me,” she whispered into his ear.

Before he could respond, she’d turned, keeping a firm grip on his wrist, and began tugging him toward one of the smaller completed dwellings. _Her home,_ he realized.

Cassandra paused, and turned to the others, her expression going stony. “If anyone knocks on my door for any reason,” she said slowly, “I will _personally_ throw them down the mountain. Understood?”

Nobody dared do anything but nod.


	21. Epilogue

“Listen up,” Bram called, turning to face the group of children. “Emi, Friedrich, you’re on my team. Marina, you have Dastan and Fletcher. All right?”

“I want to be with Fletcher,” Emi said quietly, wringing her hands.

Marina put a hand on the girl’s shoulder. “You have to learn to get by without your brother once in a while.”

Emi looked up at her with her sad brown eyes. “But Fletcher said he’d always be there for me.”

“He will,” Marina assured her. “But you have to be there for him too sometimes, right?”

Emi considered her words, set her jaw, and nodded. “Ok.”

Fletcher waved to Emi as she crossed over to Bram’s side. The young human girl looked out-of-place next to the tall Bram and stocky Friedrich, her long red locks contrasting with their black hair, and their skin looking almost white next to her deeper color. On Marina’s side, though it was Dastan who looked out of place. Fletcher was almost a mirror image of his sister, and Marina’s hair was as gold as her eyes.

“Perfect,” Dastan said. “Each team has one girl and one human.”

“Hey!” Friedrich called. “Your side has one and a half humans!”

Marina glared at him. “Shut up, Friedrich.”

“Play nice,” Matthew called from the bench. He and Luther had their arms around each other’s shoulders, watching the children from a safe distance.

Marina hung her head. “Sorry,” she muttered.

“Me too,” Friedrich said. “I… like your hair.”

“Thanks.” Marina straightened up and looked at Bram. “Ready?”

Marina usually didn’t mind being the only half-human in Casmark. The others sometimes made fun of her hair, but her mother had always told her it was something to be proud of, and Marina loved her mother as much as she loved life itself. She might have been uncomfortable with the attention—but then, she was the daughter of the people Casmark had been named for. Attention was something she’d gotten used to.

Bram held out the ball. He had his mother’s wisdom and his father’s dexterity, and as the oldest of the children, he was a formidable opponent. But Marina was only half a year younger, and she’d spent all of her nine years trying to match Bram in everything he did. She wasn’t about to let him beat her now.

Marina met Bram’s eyes, and he smiled the way he only ever smiled at her—the smile that let her know he wasn’t about to just let her win, either.

“Go!” Bram shouted, dropping the ball, and the game began.

“Who’s playing?” Cassandra asked, pen scratching away at a ledger.

“The usual group,” Mark replied from where he stood at the window. He had a clear view of the shore and the children’s game. “Marina and Bram are leading the teams.”

“Oh, dear,” Cassandra sighed.

Mark smiled. “They’ve got Fletcher and Emi playing.”

“Really?” She set down her pen and made her way to the window. She sidled up next to him, placing one hand on his shoulder as she looked out at the game. “That’s wonderful. Marina’s really gotten them to open up.”

Mark nodded. It had been about a month since Matthew and Luther had discovered the two orphans, and brought them back to the village—Mark still refused to call it Casmark, even though the name had clearly stuck years ago. For the first week Emi and Fletcher had been living there, the two of them hadn’t spoken except to each other; but the other children slowly got them to open up, Bram and Marina leading the charge as usual. The two were never made to feel out-of-place for being human or orphans, and Matthew and Luther turned out to be loving parents. It wouldn’t be long before they were able to start lessons with Renault and the other children. Emi and Fletcher had begun to come out of their shells, and Mark couldn’t help but be proud of his daughter for helping them do that.

He turned to see Cassandra smiling up at him. “What?” he asked, unable to resist smiling back.

“It’s good to see you so happy,” she said, slipping her arm around his waist.

He raised an eyebrow. “Am I usually not happy?”

She hesitated before answering. “You’ve been prone to brooding lately.”

“Really?” Mark thought about it for a moment. “I guess you must be right.”

“I’m your wife; I’m _always_ right.” She stroked his arm. “Is it the news from Bern?”

Mark nodded. “The prince was targeted by assassins, but the king is the one who died. And a part of me can’t help but think this is just the prelude to something worse.”

_An evil star rises in Bern. Once again, Lycia brings hope._

“Do you wish to leave?”

Mark turned to her, surprised. “What?”

“Do you wish to leave?” Cassandra asked again, her voice as soft as her eyes. “If Lycia needs you…”

“Why would you even ask that?” Mark said with a laugh.

“Don’t you laugh at me,” she said, waving a finger at him warningly. “I ask because—well.” Her expression sobered. “You still have friends out there, Mark. In a way, you still have family out there, too.”

Mark paused, taking her in. She was his life—she, and the community they’d helped to build over the last ten years. Humans and morphs, living together, just as he’d hoped all those years ago. Emi and Fletcher weren’t the only humans to join them; others had made their way to the secluded mountain lake over the years. Some were strangers in need of a home; some were familiar faces with nowhere else to go.

But somewhere down there, miles away, Hector was still presiding over a nation. Eliwood was still raising his son. And Lyn was still wandering the plains, a wind at her back and grass under her feet.

Mark looked away from Cassandra, and to their bed in the corner. To Marina’s bed beside. To the fireplace he’d tended for the last ten years, the desk they’d both used to manage Casmark, the bearskin rug that had been a gift from Denning after his first hunting trip with Bram.

To the window, and the lake beyond, where the children cheered the first goal of the game. Emi’s face was flush with excitement, Dastan was brushing jet-black hair from his eyes, and Marina and Bram were taking their places for the next play.

“I wouldn’t leave you,” he answered. “Not for the world.

She smiled, and laid her head on his shoulder. He stroked her long, black hair, looking down into her golden eyes. “I love you,” he whispered.

“I love you, too.”

_The End_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for joining me on this journey. I've been writing and revising this story for quite a while now, and I've learned and grown a great deal in that time. I'm glad to have it out before the new year begins, and I'm pleased you didn't have to wait long for updates. As always, feedback is appreciated; but more than that, I hope you've enjoyed this story as much as I have. Thank you, and farewell for now.


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